


Island Boy

by Not_You



Series: Culture Shock [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Astral Projection, BAMF Erik, Chicken Soup, Chickens, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dirty Dancing, Field Trip, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Feeding, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mutant Powers, Necklaces, Quiet Sex, Riding, Sharing Clothes, Slavery, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, Travelogue, Worldbuilding, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens, really it's indenture, shameless worldbuilding, very groovy mutations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 23,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles's journey to Genosha, and the process of settling in once he gets there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charles can't help being nervous. He's going to leave everything he has ever known, after all. But if he can go he can return, and he wants to try freedom in Genosha. Here he's more free as a slave, with his family being the way it is. He wouldn't leave at _all_ if Erik had not assured him that Raven could come to them on school holidays and would always have a home with Charles. He has it in writing as well, but he still frets and unpacks and starts over several times, and doesn't sleep at all on his last night in the palace. Of course he wants to go with Erik, but he'll miss this place and everyone in it.

The next morning he's exhausted enough that the wretchedness of farewells is a bit muted, and he sleeps in the carriage as they jounce along the road under a leaden sky. The darkest days are over, but light and warmth return slowly to the north. Charles sleeps for miles of the trip, waking up at the low winter noon. Erik is sitting across from him, gazing out the window for a moment before returning to the little leather-bound notebook in his lap. He looks appealingly studious, and Charles smiles.

"Travel journal?"

"Sort of," Erik replies, smiling back and tucking the book away again. "Wine?"

"Please." Being an ambassador, Erik travels in considerable style, and Emma has only added to it, so the wine is her own golden ice-wine. They sip it out of little silver cups as the white-shrouded landscape goes by. "Does Genosha have any mountaintops high enough to hold snow?" Charles asks, still watching the roadside.

"No," Erik says gently. "I remember missing it."

Charles smiles. "After last winter and this one, I think it will take me a long time." There's a pleased little shimmer to Erik at that, with a slow, semiconscious curl of possessiveness that makes Charles shiver. He drains his cup and sets it aside, crawling into Erik's lap, having asked and received permission to do so in a telepathic flicker. He sighs and curls up, resting his head on Erik's shoulder. He shows him how cold it got, and how endless it seemed, and how assiduously each tiny spark of life had to protect itself against the crushing weight of the winter. Erik shivers, holds Charles close, as if to warm him now.

It takes them two days to leave Lady Frost's lands, and three weeks to make their way to the coast. It's warmer here, and everything is grey. The houses are weathered grey wood under grey slate roofs and grey clouds. The snow is grey slush and the quays are grey stone and the sea is a sullen sheet of lead. Even the playing children are grey, mostly the large broods of fishermen in black and white blended wool. The only colors Charles sees are in flowing hair and a few bits of Genoshan red trim. He's beyond tired of the carriage, and is glad to go with Erik to get his Order of Manumission. They won't sign it on Westchester soil, but it will be good to have it properly drawn up with the red border and everything. The lawyer is an older lady whose appearance shows signs of Wakanda blood, and she smiles softly at them, wishing Charles well in his coming freedom. He thanks her politely, and takes Erik's arm as they leave.

"I don't suppose there's a bath house here, is there?" Erik asks as they walk the causeways while the Genoshan sailors who have come to fetch them rest, and reload and repair the ship. They've been here for a day or two already, but it's a substantial distance and it's good to take the time to prepare properly. Which gives them plenty of time to bathe, because there is a bath house here. The tradition isn't nearly as common here as it is in Wakanda, Genosha, or to the far north, but there is an old and renowned one here. It has a long history of being a place for dockworkers and sailors to get the salt off of their skin and out of their hair, an institution old and beloved enough to treat Erik like everyone else even though they recognize him from his arrival in the country months ago.

The walls and the basins are grey stone, of course, completely unadorned, but there are roaring stoves and immense, soft fur rugs to lounge on while drying off. They each strip down and take a towel from the pair of slaves working the door, paying the small fee and leaving their things at the desk, under the guard of a surly-looking one-eyed sailor. Erik feels amused and strangely nostalgic here, and shares a memory with Charles of his father's work as a smith, and the kind of men he drank with at the end of a long day.

The water is slick with minerals and almost painfully hot. Erik hisses as he sinks into it, for once not worrying about his scars at all. He stretches his long arms out along the edge of the basin, and Charles cuddles up to his side, affectionate but perfectly decorous. There's desultory talk about the weather and the price of fish with the interior so starved of game, as well as of women had and women longed for, before one of them turns to Erik.

"General Lensherr, you figure trade with Genosha is going to bring eel up or down?"

"Mm." Erik ponders this for a moment, eyes closed. "Probably up. We like eel quite well, and the ones near the island are tiny."

"Going back with him, boy?" another of them asks Charles, and he laughs.

"I am, sir. I'm looking forward to it."

They endure some good-natured teasing over this, and Erik is some of the most relaxed Charles has ever seen him when they finally get out to take their turn stretched out on the rugs.


	2. Chapter 2

Bathed and fed, they pass their last night in Westchester in a comfortable room with a view of the harbor. Erik works at the desk provided until Charles comes up and slides his hands over his shoulders to loop his arms around his neck.

"Come to bed, love. It'll all be there in the morning."

Erik chuckles. "I suppose it will."

Charles draws him away to bed, where he sighs and sinks into the mattress, letting Charles do whatever he wants with him. There's something so sweet about the way he trusts Charles with his scarred and abused self. Tonight he moans and sighs as Charles fucks him, kissing the edge of his collar, his head full of freedom.

The next morning comes far too early, and Erik just laughs when Charles complains. "It's the price you pay for being such a wanton," he says, buttoning his doublet in the mirror. "Ugh. I am not going to miss all these clothes."

Charles laughs, lurching upright and dressing himself. "I do wonder what I'll be wearing in Genosha. I mean, I've read a bit about native attire..."

"You'll be wearing some of mine on the trip, which ought to be a good start."

Charles is beyond curious, and even though they'll be spending at least six weeks aboard ship, he goes up the gangplank eagerly, looking around. The good ship Osehka is small but well fitted up, made of a very dark wood with a sleek fish for a figurehead. The traditional Genoshan ship is an outrigger canoe, but the Westchester coast is too cold for such an open vessel. The crew are muffled up to the eyes even though it's a pretty warm morning for the season, but they wave and shout at the sight of Erik, and he grins and waves back.

During the actual hauling out everyone is too busy for Charles to bother them, so he just goes to Erik's cabin and dozes for a while on the neatly-made bed. Erik has to talk to the captain, and doesn't come back to fetch Charles until they're almost too far out to see land, the sun just starting to rise over the sea. The harbor was shrouded in fog, but now it's clear and cool and Charles can see for miles. He hangs over the aft railing and watches Westchester disappear before turning and seeing the crew watching him.

"Good morning," he says, suddenly shy. They just keep looking at him, and one takes his arm and gently leads him to the center of the deck. "Erik?"

"We need to get that order signed."

Charles suddenly realizes what it is he's feeling from these kind men. They can't bear to see him collared a moment longer, minds full of tender solicitude for this brother in slavery. He vows to disabuse them of their ideas of his suffering as soon as possible but now stands in the middle of the deck as the ship's cook solemnly reads out the Order, because he speaks the western tongue the best. A massive sailor stands behind Charles with a big pair of shears, and Charles would be nervous if he didn't radiate so much care and if Erik wasn't standing right there. It's still a bit of a jolt when he snips through the collar, and Charles catches it as it falls. A huge cheer goes up, and once everyone has made sure that the sails are set right, Sacred Helix glimmering in the sun, they go in shifts to the galley to get stewed dried gourds and pieces of dried fish. It's tough to chew, but Charles does better after one of them shows him how to peel the scales off, and coffee is _fascinating_. Rich and bitter and so dark, it has a complex taste and a slippery texture like the water in the bathhouse. He's not sure he likes it, but it's hot, and it wakes him up.

He may be enthralled by the coffee and devoted to Erik, but he's not dead or blind, and the crew is very beautiful. Their skin ranges from deep bronze to rich brown, and they're all wearing kohl around their eyes and bright necklaces of glass beads. They have elegant features and full lips and beautiful hair and Charles knows he's gawking when Erik catches his eye across the table and grins at him. Charles blushes, but grins back.

Once they're really underway there's less for everyone to do, and the crew can properly introduce themselves. They have beautiful Genoshan names that he has a hard time remembering, and wonderful and intricate designs inked into their skin. They ask him all about Westchester, and with gestures and the cook for an interpreter he does his best to answer their questions. In turn, they teach him a Genoshan dice game and give him his own stick of kohl to beautify himself. Beyond the cultural exchange, Charles gets a glimpse of General Lensherr as he speaks to the crew in their own tongue, ambassador-grade clothing exchanged for anonymous grey furs and the metallic tension that Charles had thought was just part of Erik's public face has almost completely disappeared. He lounges easily against the railing, watching Charles throw the dice and occasionally advising him. It's easy to picture this Erik in a quiet moment with his men during the revolution.

That night Charles curls up with Erik in their small bed, listening to his heartbeat and the waves on the hull. _It's good to see you more comfortable,_ he sends, and Erik chuckles, stroking his hair.

_I can be vain, but even I don't enjoy the pomp of a state visit._

Charles smiles, turning his head to kiss Erik's chest. _I can't wait to see you in Genoshan finery._


	3. Chapter 3

Their course is south-southwest, and Charles wears less clothing every day. The wind is behind them, driving them further and further south. They'll probably be becalmed later, but for now they're charging after the wayward sun. By the end of the first week Charles is wearing nothing but hose, a thin tunic, and a great deal of sun lotion, lovingly applied by Erik. He has already learned several words and phrases of Nziola and a couple of Obwaarii, and is starting to be able to help the crew, even if he needs help with the most complex knots and can't haul in the topsail without help.

Charles has managed to explain that his enslavement was more of an adoption, but they still treat him gently, because having such a wicked family that one is willing to run away must be terrible. They teach him songs and dance steps and how to fish for the large, glimmering bluefish that they call by the same word they use for the blue stone the Obwaarii make their dye from. The accepted technique is to trail a long line behind the boat, baited every three feet or so with dried fish. They have other things that would work, but everyone is sick of dried fish already, and there's plenty of it. The lines can just trail along all day, each one bound to the railing with a different patten of colored beads for each member of the crew, to mark ownership of the line and its fish. 

As an indolent passenger who doesn't even have to report on what he's been doing for the last six months, Charles can check the lines at any time. Even with the current mania for fish in Westchester, Charles hasn't tasted much fresh bluefish, and has certainly never eaten it raw before this voyage. Apparently this is just something Genoshans do with particularly fresh fish, and bluefish has a rich, almost creamy texture this way. The cook cuts it into slices thin enough for sunlight to glow through the pink flesh, and everyone eats it with fluffy Wakanda rice and toasted seaweed. The fishermen eat seaweed in Westchester, but it's never fashionable, and this is a different kind, skimmed out of the waves this morning.

Charles has many questions about the seaweed, but watching Erik enjoy it is distracting him. It isn't a very sensual food, needing some hard chewing to get it down, but the truly happy and childlike way Erik chomps on the stuff is adorable to watch. He's like a puppy with a particularly nice bone, and Charles is pleased to find himself with extra just so he can give it to Erik.

Two weeks and a few days out, they stop for water. Their current stores aren't that low, but they're almost certain to be becalmed later on, and it pays to prepare. Charles sits up at the prow, watching the approach of Madripoor. It's a small island but a major port, green and wet and full of people and goods from all over the world. It does have mountains high enough to hold snow, but down here on the sea the sun is heavy, only kept from being unpleasant by the light wind filling the helix sails. 

Curious as he is, Charles goes below long before they reach the harbor, putting himself together a bit. He may no longer be a platinum-collared Westchester bedslave, but one of Erik's shirts over an old pair of smalls is not at all up to standard. Erik looks up when he comes in, and smiles, thinking the same thing. "It's probably warm enough for you to borrow something of mine," he says, already dressed in the emerging style of free Genosha. Native men wear skirts, but most of the imported ones come from cultures where shirts and trousers were required in the name of decency. The favored solution seems to be loose trousers that stop at the knee and a short robe, both made in light palm fiber fabrics. Charles is stuck with his own shoes, but Erik's clothes fit if he belts the trousers and cuffs up the sleeves of the robe. The fabric is cool and rough and somehow almost slick. It's a pleasant texture, and makes Charles think of the straw hats field workers wear during the Westchester summer. He rubs his cheek against one sleeve, and Erik smiles. "Glad you like it."

Charles studies himself in the small mirror on the wall. He's already the palest person on the ship, but somehow it stands out all the more in Genoshan clothes. "I'm a little afraid my legs will blind innocent bystanders," he says, "but I could definitely get used to this."

"My little snowdrop," Erik coos, hugging Charles and laughing at the irritated noise he makes. "You'll get some color soon enough."

Landsmen that they are, they have nothing to do but walk around and look at things while the crew scurries around washing barrels and haggling over rope and rum. Erik is glowing with contentment. Here is he is, fed and free and able to wander unremarked in good weather with someone he feels genuine affection for. There's a simplicity to his contentment that forces Charles to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat, and he takes Erik's hand. Erik squeezes gently.

"We should find you a pair of sandals or slippers while we're here, and some light-weight clothes of your own."

"Lady Frost was very generous," Charles says, acknowledging his own fairly substantial funds, and Erik chuckles.

"Let me at least make you a present of the shoes," he says, and Charles grins at him.

"If you insist, sir." He feels a bit bad about putting Erik in the position of having to haggle for anything after weeks of doing it for such high stakes, but he doesn't seem to mind, speaking rapid Wakanda trader's argot to a hunched and wrinkled little old man who has piles of beautiful beaded sandals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madripoor exists in the Marvel Universe, but is probably supposed to be somewhere over by Laos. Here it's on their way because I say so and couldn't think of anything to call the island.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time they're back aboard the Osehka, Charles has several robe and trouser sets, as well as some skirts and dresses because they're pretty and no one will remark on it in Genosha. He also manages to pick up some jewelry for a very good price. Altogether he could afford it in gold, provided he didn't mind making himself completely destitute. His second-best white wolf fur is a rare prize in Madripoor, though, and with Erik to help him haggle he returns to the ship triumphant and still possessed of most of his severance pay.

"You really could have been a merchant, Erik," he says, and Erik laughs.

"If I'd had the patience. Besides, you had that old bandit quite charmed. Even without me you'd have gotten your baubles."

"I'm still glad of the help." He's also glad to have spent a day on Madripoor. Eating roasted locusts on a stick in the market had felt very Genoshan indeed, even if he hadn't been able to bring himself to eat the heads, despite everything Erik says about them being the best part.

They leave on the evening tide, and the night air is so warm that Charles and Erik and a lot of the crew sprawl out on the deck to sleep, watching the thousands of glimmering stars above. Charles still knows a lot of the constellations, but they're occupying very unusual places in the sky, and of course Genoshans have connected the stars in other ways and by other means. The She-Wolf is the Tigress, and the Lute is the Gourd, while the Five Brothers are the five points of a goddess's crown.

Erik even tells a very oblique war story, talking about being on watch in a rebel encampment and seeing shooting stars fall like rain. "The Tears of the Tigress," he murmurs, Charles's head on his shoulder. "They come every seven years, and they made me feel free."

"It's good luck to see them without looking through a window," the cook adds, yawning. "New mothers and invalids get around that by standing in the doorway."

Charles laughs softly. "I'm glad there's a loophole." Then he gets to explain the idiom, and talk everyone to sleep.

After a few dreamy nights like this, they all retreat below deck again. There's a warm current around Madripoor, and having crossed its massive and clement breadth, the weather cools down enough that Charles actually wears one of his cloaks, and for the sailors to moan and complain about the cold. As far as Charles is concerned it's a nice day, but they just laugh and say he has ice in his blood when he says so.

The ship hits a different current after about ten 'cold' days, and they pull in the sails as a warm wind comes up from the south. The current carries them faithfully into greater and greater heat, and then drops them right in the middle of it. It's so hot here that Charles wears nothing but his shortest skirt. They manage to catch a few puffs of the humid wind, but they spend most of their time sitting in the middle of a perfect circle of glassy-blue sea. There are no clouds, no sea birds, and not a breath of wind. The captain, the first mate, and Erik all gather together over a table of maps and charts, and say very dire-sounding things in Nziola. The Osehka isn't big enough to carry enough crew to row her fast enough to get to a better latitude before the water gets low.

"It can be done," Erik explains when Charles brings them their evening meal from the galley, "but it would be a near thing. Any little accident after that and dying of thirst gets entirely too likely."

"I'm sure I remember how to build at least a small still," Charles offers, and Erik grins at him.

"I've always liked resourcefulness." The captain mumbles something around a mouthful of dried fish, and Erik sighs. "I think you're right."

After they've eaten, the captain calls the crew together and explains the plan to them. The massive one who cut Charles's collar heaves the anchor over the side, and the others put out the oars. Charles can't row to save his life even in a small boat, so he just sits with Erik, monitoring him to keep him from pushing himself too hard as the crew starts rowing southward.

At first there are just a few ripples in the still water, but then there are more and more, and Charles can feel the anchor through Erik. It's a comfortable feeling, all that iron sort of singing to him. It's closer to tasting than hearing, and Charles reflects yet again that human languages need more words for the strange sensations and insights that come with some gifts. Erik's awareness flows along the thick chain and grips the massive weight of the anchor, pushing it through the water ahead of them. It's a monstrous and delicate application of force, to keep the chain taut without exerting too much force on the ship. Erik is deft and sure, stretched flat on the deck so he doesn't have to put in the tiny amount of concentration to hold himself up right, sweat beading on his back as his heart pounds. It's not beating too hard yet, and Charles feels tremendously protective of Erik, even as he demonstrates why he so seldom needs to be protected.

The sun sets and the moon rises, and still the sailors row and Erik pulls. Charles glances at the captain's mind, asking without words how much more they need, and he responds that Erik can stop. Two sailors come up to haul in the anchor, and Charles reaches into the far place where Erik is to tell him so. He protests a little when Charles insists that he stop now. He could go on longer, but it would be a terrible strain on his system. He can accept that, but Charles can't. He sighs, and shifts the anchor back alongside the ship and lifts it a bit, helping the chain wind.

Charles chuckles, stroking his hair. _Besides, love, the captain said we were past the High Rock, where the winds pick up again._

 _Already?_ Erik mumbles, and falls asleep the second the anchor is stowed again.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik needs sleep after his exertions, and Charles does his utmost to make him comfortable. With help from the first mate he carries Erik back to their cabin and then undresses him and bathes the dried sweat from his body before slipping into bed beside him. His mind is still reverberating with all that power, and he's half-hard as he presses against Erik's side, wrapping a leg over him. It doesn't do to do anything about it now. For now he just enjoys being close to Erik, feeling him breathing in and out, and the slight stickiness where their skin touches.

Charles drifts in and out of his doze for a long time, keeping Erik comfortable and feeding him some water halfway through the night when he comes mumbling up from some troublesome dream. Before sunrise he truly wakes up, and stumbles into their tiny washroom where he remains for some time, before emerging less stubbly and more alert but still looking wrung out.

"I keep forgetting that I'm not getting any younger," he says, and yawns. Charles chuckles, and beckons him over. Erik sighs, nestling into his arms and closing his eyes. For a long, quiet time they just breathe together, and Charles thinks Erik will fall back asleep before he shifts slightly and grinds against Charles's thigh, this part of him very much awake. "Maybe this is the worst age of all," he mumbles. "Young enough to be hard and old enough to be too tired to do anything about it."

"Who says you have to to do anything?" Charles asks, and rolls Erik onto his back, straddling him. Erik shudders, and just rests his hands on Charles's hips, letting out a trembling, gusty sigh as he starts to move. This is almost a dance, and Charles has been praised for his delicacy and control. None of it has ever pleased him as much as Erik's breathless silence does now. He has seen all the power hinted at by Erik's strong and active mind, and now he has it pinned under him, utterly helpless and just as trusting. He doesn't have the words to tell Erik how he feels, but he has his gift. He presses the knowledge into Erik's mind, gentle and warm and insistent, and Erik moans, hands flexing as his head tips back.

"Ohh..." Charles slips two fingers into Erik's open mouth and he moans a little louder, just holding them there and suckling lightly. They stay that way for a while, and Erik makes a little mewling noise of protest when Charles has to pull his fingers out to find his oil. 

"Hush," he says softly, stroking himself open with the other hand, "you can have it back in a moment." He slicks Erik and gives himself a little more and then lines Erik's cock up against his hole and sinks down. This would hurt without all of Charles's training, and even with it he has take a long moment to adjust, breathing deeply. That's fine, though. Erik couldn't hurry him even if he wanted to, and he seems content just to mouth Charles's fingers and quietly moan his contentment. He opens his eyes when Charles slowly starts to move again, and they're wide and almost shocked. His irises are a faint rim of color around enormous pupils, just the effect Charles has been trained to look for. He smiles, and speeds up a little, clenching tightly to feel the way it makes Erik flinch, and pulse inside him.

They rest and rock together for what feels like a long time before Erik comes deep inside Charles, who rides along telepathically. Erik is asleep before Charles is done cleaning him up, and he smiles, kissing him too lightly to wake him before cuddling in with him again.

Erik is up and around the next day, and the ship is much further south. They have plenty of water for the remainder of the voyage and are traveling faster than ever. Charles is glad of that, because while his time aboard the Osehka has been entertaining and educational, he's starting to long for dry land again.

It takes another two and a half weeks or so, but they do reach Free Genosha at last. This actually means they're just inside the cluster of tiny islands around the main one, but it's still quite a change of pace. The water is warmer and more shallow here, and vibrant fish swim in and out of coral, something Charles has only seen in pictures and imported jewelry. The whole cluster is Free Genosha, but these tiny islands have their own names, many of them in the Fharra tongue. This crew is actually something of an anomaly for having no Fharra sailors, and as Charles sees the way the tall, golden people manage their canoes and the effortless way they swim, he can easily believe it.

Not everyone out here is Fharra, but the various much smaller groups all speak it to make trade amongst themselves easier. A folklorist or linguist could spend a lifetime out here, and Charles hopes some of Westchester's scholars will. For now he just hangs over the side, watching the islands and the boats and the people, waving back at the ones that wave to him. The Fharra girls are bold and beautiful, many of them draped in multicolored pearls and little else. They grin at Charles in a wonderfully unspoilt way, and one black-eyed beauty tosses him an orange from the neat pyramid beside her. She laughs at his surprise, and they're moving slowly enough for him to run to his cabin and throw her a small parcel of tree sugar in return, barely making it over the railing of what is presumably her father's boat as it falls behind them.

The orange is as red as blood inside, and the best Charles has ever tasted.


	6. Chapter 6

With the increased traffic and shallower water, it takes them another four days to wend their way to the main island, but they do reach it at last. It's so green it almost hurts Charles's eyes, and everyone on the ship dresses, not just Erik. Charles is glad for his purchases in Madripoor, because he's able to throw on a brightly-patterned skirt, a nice necklace, and a pair of sandals like almost everyone else. It's fun to watch a bunch of sailors carefully applying facepaint, and they really are good at it. He's just wearing some kohl, partially because the stuff makes it easier to see in all this tropical light. Erik smirks at all of them, prepared to greet his people almost completely unadorned. He's wearing his sword, which he had pulled out of his trunk last night. It feels like a part of him, an old friend he hasn't seen in far too long, and the battered old scabbard rests easily against Erik's pale Obwaarii blue trousers and robe. 

Charles smiles and takes his hand. _Should I let go when we arrive?_

 _Probably,_ Erik says, squeezing gently and lacing their fingers together. _Not before, though._

"What kind of greeting can we expect?"

"Well, compound servants will come down to carry our bags, the children will run after us and we'll have to promise them a present, and the old women will clap and the young ones will yell. The men will probably just stop work for a moment and look up, and there are good odds that a bard will be around to sing a really embarrassing song about me. That's about it, though. Once we get the compound I'll have to hand you off to the scribes, but we'll be able to have dinner together after."

"And after that?"

Erik chuckles. "You'll have your own room, but there's no rule about sleeping in it if you don't want to."

The servants are apparently old friends with some of the crew, and they all work together to get everything balanced on people's heads or lashed to long poles carried over their shoulders. Charles can't help but be a little shocked at how many of the children are naked when they appear, but it's a warm day and everyone in the crowd old enough to have any real development is covered, so he supposes it will work out fine. Covered by Genoshan standards, anyway. He's still not used to the prevalence of bare chests for women, but he will presumably become so. Erik and the crew are answering shouted questions and distributing sweets bought from Fharra merchants on the way in from the outer islands.

Erik has almost relaxed on the bard front, but a wave of resignation washes over him as a tall man in a bright green robe who looks like he might have a mixture of Fharra and Nziola blood (or just be tall and pale for the area) steps out of one of the smooth earth yards and joins the procession. He starts to sing in a high, clear voice, and Erik grimaces for a moment as the children pick up the chorus. Charles can just catch the gist of the Nziola lyrics, and gently brushes the singer's mind to get the rest. Sure enough, it's a ballad about the war for liberation and some of Erik's deeds therein. It's just the kind of thing to embarrass him, and Charles reaches out to Erik's mind, sharing his urge to take Erik's hand again.

The singer gets cash instead of sweets, and the children yell a ragged chorus of pretty thanks in Nziola before running away again as the outer wall of the compound comes into view. Only a few of the crew actually live here like Erik does, but they all come in to greet friends. The main wall and the round houses inside are made of baked earth, wood, and thatch. There's some use of stone, but these are the most common building materials on the island, and don't allow for more than two or three levels at the most. It's essentially a miniature village, with the same kind of pounded earth yards and paths and little gardens. It's humble and homey and Charles likes it immediately, even if he knows he's going to get lost a lot as he learns his way around.

Erik has a house of his own behind the central office, but Charles only gets a glimpse of it as Erik makes sure all his baggage gets there. That done, he does the same for Charles's things. The scribes have one of the larger buildings, with two levels, and the head scribe is standing outside it. She has one eye and one leg is a carved peg from the mid-calf down. She smiles at Charles, and greets him in his own language. She has a strong accent, but he would understand her without his gift. She introduces herself as Talak and promises Erik to take care of Charles, before they follow the servants inside and he departs for the main office.

The scribes's building is cool and airy, full of the scent of green leaves and wood smoke. The doorway opens into a corridor that's also open at the opposite end and broken up by four curtained doorways on each side. The curtains are coarse and heavy palm fiber fabric, dyed in various patterns and shades, and Talak pulls one aside to give him a glimpse of the room beyond before sending him up one of two ladders located at each end of the passage. His room is the last one on the left, with the blue curtain.

It's the same small size as the others, but the bed looks comfortable and the covers and cushions a bright blue that's weaker than the famous Obwaarii one. He reminds himself to ask Erik about them, and gets his things disposed around the space. There's a large chest, a few shelves, and a small table of the right height to kneel at in the usual Genoshan way, with a view of one of the gardens out the round window. He'll be comfortable here. He tells Erik so with his gift, and is touched at the deep relief and satisfaction that comes back to him.


	7. Chapter 7

Talak gives Charles time to fuss around his room and stow everything away as the servants pass it up the ladder, but then she takes him on a complete circuit of the compound while questioning him on everything he knows about languages, how many of the Genoshan ones he's working on and what command he has of them so far, and whether he knows any of the Western or Eastern shorthand forms. He answers as best he can off the top of his head, and then explores the building where he'll be doing most of his work. There are eight desks in rows, and racks of pens, shelves of ink, rolls of paper and a barrel of clay. No one is here today, all called out on various jobs.

"We keep our own records on clay because paper rots, but paper is easier to transport and people beyond Genosha are expecting it anyway," she says. "You'll be doing laundry lists and letters, at least at first. We'll try to teach you to work on clay, but you'll have plenty to do even if you never learn."

"Fair enough," Charles says, fascinated. "Anything else I need to know?"

She tells him the daily routine, which is to come in when the sun is three fingers off the sea and to catch up on anything from the day before and then to go transcribe things at the main office or anywhere else they're called to. There's a set rotation of various tasks that she has already added Charles onto, and every market day they have a meeting to discuss the past week and to pay everyone their five helixes. With his room and board already provided, this is more than enough for anyone who isn't hopelessly profligate.

"Now, I'll take you around the pond, and you can meet everyone at dinner."

The pond is fed by a little spring allowed through the wall by a culvert, and is full of big, grey, disinterested fish. Much more interesting to Charles are the fruit trees that ring it, and the chirping little monkeys that adorn them. Talak smiles. "They're about half-tame. If you're patient with them they'll come and sit on your shoulder."

"They sound like birds," Charles says, watching one scrub its little face with black hands, its tail curled up behind it.

"There are a lot of legends about that," she says. "Once you get a good grip on the local tongues you can help us collect them."

By the time they've made their way around the pond and Talak has shown him where the latrine is and which is the moon-house so he won't blunder into anyone else's by accident, the sun is lowering and dinner is ready. Since it's not windy or raining, everyone settles on rugs in the courtyard for gourd porridge, some kind of green soup, and salted bluefish. It all tastes strange to Charles, but very good, and he's able to settle next to Erik without comment from anyone.

_Comfortable, dearest?_

_Very._

Aloud, Erik asks what Charles thinks of his duties as described, and he laughs. "Well, I can't laze around like I could in Westchester, but I think I'll enjoy the work."

"That's about how I feel to be back home," Erik says, picking up a piece of bluefish and peeling the charred scales off.

"What do you do when you're here? Is there any General-ing, or do you mostly administrate?"

He laughs. "I take trips to talk to the lead warriors of each tribe to make sure none of us are angry with each other, and I'm part of our council, which means listening to legal cases, helping to make state decisions, and trying not to look bored during ceremonies."

"I see." Charles leans on him. "Are you doing any of that after this?"

"No, I'm being allowed to recover."

Charles is pleased to be part of that recovery, and follows Erik home for a drink after the meal. Genoshans generally drink rum, which is sweeter and warmer than the icy-clear juniper spirits Charles is used to. He had first tried it aboard ship, but Erik claims to have a particularly good bottle stashed away, and brings it out while Charles examines the main room of the house, with its green tile floor and the carvings on the support beams. Erik returns from digging in a cupboard and gestures to the low wooden table and the lower stools beside it. As Charles settles, Erik hands him a square, heavy bottle.

"We actually found this in one of the big houses. There's probably enough to keep a man drunk for a year, buried out there in what the jungle has taken back." There's a flicker of grimness to him that always comes with remembering the war, but he sends Charles a picture of that time, of his tired and ragged men soaking their feet in an ornamental pond, passing a bottle just like this one from hand to hand.

Charles smiles. "Shall we partake the same way?"

"If all our cryomancers weren't busy preserving food and lowering fevers, I'd show you a local specialty. As it is, we'll do something simpler."

It's the charming kind of simple, just the golden juice of two small fruits and the rum itself. They drink the mixture from little gourd bowls, and the sweetness is as sharp as honey without tasting anything like it.

"Wow," Charles murmurs after his first sip, and Erik laughs.

"Even before liberation, we had this." Night falls fast here at the belly of the world, and Charles realizes he can barely see Erik. He makes a little noise of surprise, and Erik laughs, getting up to light a small lamp. It's just a little clay affair, but he attaches a metal reflector that allows it to throw a great deal of warm, yellow light. Big, pale moths throw massive shadows on the wall, and Charles drains his bowl in tiny sips, trying to memorize the taste.


	8. Chapter 8

They may not have the same kind of time to laze around as they did in Westchester, but Charles still insists on going to bed with Erik. Tomorrow he may be too tired, and now he wants to do what he can. He tells Erik so and kisses his laughing mouth as they make their way to the low, wide bed. In Westcheter beds are built high, and piled with as many mattresses as the owner can get, straw for most people, feathers for the wealthy, and dried moss on the northern border. Genoshans sleep in vine hammocks, on piles of fresh leaves, or on beds like this one, built wide and low out of heavy wood and only cushioned by a thick mat of palm fiber. It's kind of convenient. There are no furs to arrange, and only the one flat cushion for a pillow. It's very easy to get Erik flat on his back and out of his trousers. 

Much as Charles would love to fuck him (or the reverse,) they both have work to do tomorrow and it's getting late. The easiest thing is just to slide over him and grind down, both of them hot and so hard together. Erik shudders and lets out a harsh gasp, clutching at Charles's ass and tipping his head back. Outside the small creatures of Genosha chatter and whistle and hum and scream, and Charles sends Erik a flicker of memory, an image of Westchester in its bright, brief summer, and the fewer, quieter sounds of the unreal northern night, the sun barely dipping below the horizon. There's a lovely little ripple of intellectual fascination from Erik even as the rest of his mind is full of the buzzing warmth of arousal. Charles sighs, and kisses him, one hand planted on the bed, the other one doing its best to wrap around both of them. Charles's fingers are actually rather short, a severe defect in a bedslave, and he laughs breathlessly when Erik's longer hand comes to assist his.

Charles doesn't even have to tune in to Erik's sensations for them to climax within seconds of each other, sticky and breathless as any pair of experimental schoolboys. They lie tangled together for a long moment before Erik gets up to clean them off, since he knows where he keeps towels and water gourds. The water is cool on Charles's flushed skin, and he stretches like a cat in sunlight, making Erik laugh. Once everything is in order Erik settles beside Charles again, pulling him close and dragging the light cover over both of them.

"Probably won't be here when you wake up," he mutters, and Charles sighs.

"I'll carry on, somehow."

He does miss Erik in the morning, but has the consolation of breakfast in bed. A sunburnt and irritable blonde boy brings it to him, setting the tray down beside him. "General Lensherr sent you this. Eat it and get going, it's nearly time for the scribes to start work."

Charles smiles, sitting up. "Thank you." There's a note from Erik on the tray, the words dark scratches into the pale underside of a broad leaf: _Good morning, dearest. -E._

"It's kind of gross that he's in love," the boy says, "but you seem nice. There's cream for your coffee 'cause Westchester is covered in cows or whatever, mild fish sauce because real chilies might kill you, gourd porridge, and one whole egg. Look grateful."

"I am, I assure you," Charles says, pouring the cream into the coffee and admiring the color it turns. "Are you household staff here?"

"Yeah, but this isn't my usual job. Lensherr said you were used to having your first meal brought to you, though, and thought it would be a nice gesture."

"And one I appreciate very much." He carefully peels the egg, brushing wood ash off of the shell. "Baked, I take it?"

"Yes. We don't have many, so eat it all."

Charles does, and while it's a little small, it's definitely a good, fresh egg. The porridge tastes a little like immature pumpkin, but pleasantly so, and the fish sauce is a nice counterpoint, subtle and spicy. The boy's name is Alex, and he answers Charles's questions about each dish and takes the tray away afterward. Charles just has time to throw on yesterday's clothes and make himself semi-presentable before dashing off to work.

Talak grins when she sees Charles come rushing up, and he grins back, seeing that he's not late. The other scribes come filtering in over the next few minutes, and soon Charles is immersed in the business of his new home. There are paper birth and death records from the little villages in the hills to commit to clay, as well as legal transcriptions. All tribal records are sent to the capital to be permanently archived, but even if Charles fully understood the Genoshan system, he needs to be taught to work in clay.

At last Talak turns to him, and lists the day's paper tasks, where he'll actually be of some use. The capital has its own birth records to collect from illiterate midwives and mothers, and that alone can take until midday. "If it doesn't," Talak says, "bring them back here and I'll send you to some of the merchants who need letters written."

She doesn't sent Charles alone, of course. There's an apprentice scribe here, a respectfully silent young boy with a very shy look to his round face. He can't be more than fourteen or so, and seems fascinated with Charles. His name is Duma, and his head is shaved as smooth as polished wood. He doesn't speak a word of any western tongue, but Charles's gift can take care of that. They set off together with satchels full of paper and pens, the earth starting to steam gently as the day warms.


	9. Chapter 9

Charles reaches out to Duma's mind gently. _Good morning,_ he says, _now that we're out here, how do we find everyone?_

 _This is amazing,_ Duma replies, sweet face lighting up. His pure fascination with Charles's gift makes him think of Erik, and he carefully shields that before it can embarrass either of them. _And it's traditional to fly a green flag from a house with a new baby. Midwives also paint at least some part of their houses green, so people can find them._

_I see._

Nziola doesn't have a written form, but there are Fharra pictograms in common use, so Duma can take down basic information as they wander from house to house. There are several green flags, and Charles quickly falls into the routine of following Duma up to the door of each of these houses of joy to talk to the midwife, the child's grandmother, or the oldest sibling. In general Genoshans believe in a short actual lying-in, maintaining that a woman ought to get up and walk as soon as she can, to keep her strong, but in a long rest. The mother is almost always in one of the back rooms, spared the effort of dressing properly or talking to strangers. Not that Duma is always a stranger. A local boy, two of the day's babies are his own little cousins. They're not supposed to linger long, but at both of these houses they stop for coffee and some crunchy roasted nuts that Charles doesn't recognize, but likes immediately.

They take down the number of babies, since the Nziola in particular are prone to twins, whether they are male or female, their full names, and the names of their parents. Surnames have been instituted only recently to allow the unified state to keep better track of its people, so the names range from locational and clan-based ones, like Hill or Monkey or River, to adopted western names like Beddowes and Smith, through purely whimsical ones, like Rainbow and ShiningGold. The given names range from prosaic to poetic, everything from Born On Market Day to a near-untranslatable word for the sound of the spirit-bells the local priests use. Charles writes it as 'Bell' for his own convenience, but adds a northern shorthand symbol to remind himself that it's not actually correct.

The first little Len is amusing. Apparently to name a baby after a person still living is to imply a wish for them to hurry up and die, so the respectful thing is to take a single element of the full name, first or last. There are apparently a lot of young Lens running around, with some Eris and Sherrs as well. There are also a fair amount of Zels after Azazel, who is apparently much like Erik and currently engaged in similar trade negotiations to the ones that had taken Erik to Westchester. There are other fragments from other living heroes of the revolution, including some Tals and Laks.

By the time the sun is overhead, Charles is hot, greasy with lotion, and almost as hungry as he is thirsty. He has rolled his skirt up as short as he can decently get it, and even Duma is fanning himself with an enormous leaf.

 _Do we get to stop for lunch?_ Not that they have anything with them, which seems like a terrible oversight.

 _Of course we do._ Duma gestures with the leaf for Charles to follow him, and leads the way to a prosperous-looking family compound. There's a broad, green stripe painted all the way around the exterior wall, and another on the main house inside. The place looks deserted, since it's too hot right now for the women to sit out in the yard the way they generally do, but Charles can hear conversation and activity.

"Nok-Nok!" Duma calls. In a place where many dwellings don't have doors or have a curtain instead, there are certain traditional attention-getting noises to make in place of knocking, which differ from region to region. Westerners had given up on the subtleties, and their version has been readily absorbed.

"We see you!" a woman calls, and they approach the way they have all morning. There are four generations here. The wise old midwife who owns the place, daughters and daughters-in-law, and a young granddaughter with a fat, happy baby girl whose name and date of birth were collected months ago. There's also a midwife from a far village, who has brought her own records to the capital. She's very, very dark, with sharp features and hair in oiled locks, and Charles isn't surprised to hear that she's Obwaarii. She looks about forty-five, and says she'll give them the records after they eat.

Surrounded by this many older women, Charles and Duma naturally have a lot of good-natured and maternal teasing to endure about poor overworked young men who don't eat enough. It's a lot like being in a village wife's kitchen in Westchester, only the delicious meal on offer is of course, completely different. Charles is occupied by trying out his Nziola and being gently laughed at as he asks questions about every dish and helps with the group effort to find out which solid food the baby likes best so far. She seems to agree with Charles, that the sweet porridge made with cane juice is amazing.

The women wave away Charles's offer to help clear up, laughing as they chide him to get back to work. He laughs and and agrees, turning to Yaan, the Obwaarii midwife. She says something to Duma that Charles doesn't understand, but he gets the impression of water, and isn't surprised when she passes them a bowl of water to wash their hands as their hostess's eldest daughter had done when they arrived. That done, they follow her into the yard to be out of the way. One of the other houses has an kind of awning set up beside it, made of leaves on a lattice of wooden poles. The shade is nice, and he and Duma settle comfortably with their scrolls. Charles isn't sure what he's expecting, maybe some slips of bark with numbers and pictograms, but instead she composes herself, takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins to sing.


	10. Chapter 10

Yaan has a deep, rich voice, and sings the names and dates of all the babies she has delivered in the last two weeks. She sings in Obwaarii and Charles still isn't clear on how the Genoshan calender works, so he uses his gift to understand her. There are twenty-eight children in total, fourteen girls, thirteen boys, and one 'strange,' which Charles just notes literally to ask about later. When the song ends, another of the women comes out to give all three of them some water. Duma thanks her prettily and drains his gourd, so Charles does the same and follows when he takes his leave.

It's even hotter now, and Duma sighs, fanning himself again. _Come with me,_ he says, heading back toward the compound. _We'll come back out in the evening to get the last few._

 _Thank God,_ Charles replies, and Duma laughs.

They spend the hottest part of the day covered in cooling clay, smearing the stuff into the rectangular tablet-forms and watching the senior scribes carve their data into the ones that are already smoothed and mostly dried. Standing at Talak's shoulder, Charles gets his chance to ask about strangeness. Everyone seems a bit shocked and Duma covers his mouth in what looks a lot like maidenly confusion. Charles is ready to apologize, but Talak just rolls her eyes and keeps carving.

"Strange is what we call it when we can't tell if a child is male or female. They can correct it later or stay strange all their lives, it's up to them."

"Oh." Charles blinks, realizing that he doesn't know what would happen to such a child in Westchester. "That's fascinating Thank you for telling me. I won't pry anymore if it's rude."

"It would be if you had been brought up here, but if you had been brought up here, you would know," Talak says, shrugging. "I'm just glad to see so many babies. Means the women are healthy enough to bear."

Charles smiles. "I'm glad of it, too. Even if Duma and I will have to go out again for the rest."

Talak laughs, and everyone goes back to talking in Nziola until Talak looks at the sun and declares it time to eat. Charles and Duma are exempted from setting out dishes or serving food, since they need the time to bathe off the clay at a nearby spring. There are complicated rules about water in Genosha, a nation of tiny islands with springs and rivers that serve multiple communities. Westchester is full of wells, kept clean and fresh with almost no effort from anyone. Charles just knows he'll bathe or piss in the wrong spot and get into trouble at some point, and can only hope that whoever catches him makes allowances. Clean clay won't hurt anyone, though, and soon he and Duma are sitting in a circle with the other scribes.

Charles is charmed to find his midday meal of rice and an unfamiliar salted, green gourd served on an enormous leaf which is itself edible, a remarkable display of economy. Looking around him, he sees the others picking up tidbits with clean fingers, the gesture reminding him of the few, wary hens he has seen pecking at invisible specks in the city's earthen yards. It's Wakanda rice and doesn't stick like the eastern sort would, but Charles still copies Talak and a few others who roll the leaf up into a neat cylinder and eat it that way. He likes the combined flavors, and it's more convenient. More than anything he's reminded of the way Westchester field hands carry their bannocks and cold meat, and the thought makes him smile.

In the cooler hours after noon, Duma leads him out again. They're talking more, to improve Charles's Nziola, but he keeps their link open for complex ideas and emergency use. They go further afield this time, and curious children and a few little goats follow them to the edge of town. Like the chickens, many of the goats were eaten in worse times, but more have survived, since they produce milk and also serve as draft animals and indicators of personal wealth. One is dragging a little travois, the kind some of the people on the northern border use with their dogs, and it peels off from the group when a woman yells for daughter to bring the goat home. Similar calls detain the rest, and Charles and Duma are alone in the forest as they climb up to get the scattered houses on the hillside. There are more Obwaarii up here, and their yards are smaller, the crowding trees hung with bright strips of cloth, the ends weighted with stones to hold them vertical. Of course many of them are Obwaarii blue, but there are also vivid pinks and purples and a remarkably pure black.

"What are they?" Charles asks Duma as they approach one of the round, wooden houses that actually has a green strip among the rest.

Duma pauses, thinking about how to best explain. "They talk to spirits."

"And us?" he asks, pointing to the green one.

Duma grins. "And us. Nok nok!" These houses actually have doors, but it's a matter of custom.

"We see you!" a woman calls in Obwaarii. Charles hopes Duma's Obwaarii is better than his own, and follows him through the door. It's very dim inside, but no one moves to make any kind of light. It's a single large room, with three pallets on the floor and the heat and scent of woodsmoke and stewing meat. Their hostess is the mother of the lady of the house, and directs them to sit on the floor by the tiny fire. After so many earth floors it's interesting to be back on wood again, and Charles crosses his legs and makes himself comfortable, his skirt rucking up over his knees but draping in the middle to keep him decent.

"Have you eaten?" the old woman asks. She's a bit stooped and is missing several fingers and a lot of teeth when she smiles at them, but Charles has seldom seen anyone so happy. Once they assure her that they have, she goes to a heavy curtain and speaks quietly to someone behind it. A young man emerges, wearing a beaded loincloth. He's covered in the same terrible whips scars that mar Erik's back, but he beams at them.

In halting but clear Nziola, he tells them that he is Bwaahai Great Tree, and that his wife Kaala has found a little girl. A flicker of thought from Duma tells him that 'found' is an Obwaarii way of talking, as is the next thing he says, which is that the child told his wife that her name is Freedom. In the Obwaarrii tongue the word is Laalawaar, and after they congratulate the grandmother and new father and leave their regards for the secluded mother and baby, Charles practices it under his breath as he walks, loving the langourous l's and the little lilt in the long a's that's so much like singing.


	11. Chapter 11

They're late coming back, and have to scramble to get their share of the communal dinner in time. The seat nearest Erik is occupied by a man with a tail and skin almost the color of bloodblossom, so Erik settles between Duma and the boy who brought his breakfast.

"Hello again, Alex!"

He smirks. "There you are. What kept you?"

"Duma and I were out in the hills," Charles says, gratefully accepting a bowl of yet another type of gourd, this chopped and roasted with coarse salt and a few chili fragments. He has seen the vines on people's walls and fences and in the gardens out where he has had no business to take him, but still has no idea just how many types there are.

"You're gonna have to get used to it," Alex says, accepting a collection of whole dried fish from the serving girl with Nziola thanks. "The heads are the best part," he tells Charles, "but most Westerners can't manage it."

"I do have a hard time eating faces," Charles admits, breaking the head off of his fish. "Would you like mine?" Alex takes it gladly, crunching it up in a moment. Charles smiles. "I take it you were born here?"

"In a ship on the way over, same difference. I'm from somewhere from the High West, I guess, but I don't feel like it."

Charles nods. "There are a lot of Wakandas in Westchester who would probably say similar."

Over dinner Alex and Duma tell him more about the compound as its own entity. The kitchen staff eat first and feed the children as well, and these meals of gourds and fish are almost lavish, by current standards. The farmed fish are eaten by people in the compound first, but a large portion are given to relieve the poor. The poor who can be found, anyway. There are ragged people in the forest, too embittered, infirm, or ignorant to come to the capital for aid, and whole villages too proud to accept anything. There are families in town like that as well, and for the same reasons.

"It's hard with the Nziola," Alex says in Nziola. "They believe in sharing, but they're very proud."

Duma chuckles. "It's very hard for us to take a gift without giving something back, it's true."

Where the Nziola sometimes won't take help, the Obwaarii have different problems. Not being able to hunt has made the whole tribe feel sort of sad and adrift, the hunt of immense spiritual importance. No one has even seen the Small People from the deepest forest in the last six years, and it had been ten before that.

"I don't think they're dead," Alex says. "Just hiding."

Duma agrees, and promises to tell Charles one of his mother's stories about them later, as Alex goes on to say that the Fharra and adjacent tribes had done better during the occupation, with their myriad tiny islands and extreme mobility preventing most of the systemic abuse the Nziola and Obwaarii had endured.

There's a quiet bang, and the man next to Erik disappears. Charles can't help jumping, and Duma laughs. "I did that, the first time I saw it."

"Who is he?" Void-stepping is rare, but Charles has read enough descriptions to realize what just happened.

"General Azazel," Alex says. "He went trading too, and came in tonight to let the council know how the shipments are coming along."

"I'm so glad," Charles says, eating a few pieces of gourd. "The lady I lived with is sending poultry, which I know will be a help."

"Is it actually true about Westchester slaves?" Alex asks, quietly.

"The more I see of Genosha, the more I feel like I should describe it as apprenticeship or adoption," Charles says, crunching up the rest of his fish except for the tough tail fins.

"Save that," Alex tells him. "They'll boil them for soup tomorrow."

"Waste not, want not," Charles murmurs, and places them in the basket proffered to him by a passing serving girl. "Thank you," he says in Nziola, and she smiles.

When the circle breaks up, Charles sidles up to Erik and takes his hand. Erik squeezes it fondly. "How was your first day?"

"Tiring. And full of babies."

He smiles. "Good." He gently tugs Charles closer and puts an arm around his waist, taking him to his house for drinks. It's a different mix of juice and rum this time, and they lounge on Erik's bed and talk over the day. Charles tells him about little Laalawaar and asks about Azazel. Apparently the promised chicks are nearing the outer islands. "You'll be stuck sitting and noting the breeds and their numbers and rate of hens to cockerels. It'll be very dull."

Charles chuckles, drawing the cover over his legs. "I'm sure I'll manage. What about you?"

He sighs. "I'll probably be talking to the city watch that whole day. Inspection and training."

"And until then?"

"Still more legal cases. They come from all over the island as well as that rock off the north tip with one Nziola village on it."

"Poor thing," Charles coos, and slides up to straddle Erik's lap. "It's late and I'm tired, but I do feel the urge to console you."

"And you know I hate to deny you anything," Erik says, grinning up at him. Charles grins back and then kisses him, sinking against Erik's hardening cock and then starting a slow, heavy rocking motion. Erik shudders and gasps, shifting to plant his feet on the floor and give Charles more resistance to work with, hands moving to his hips and hanging on as he speeds up. Both of their skirts are about due to be washed anyway, but Charles hitches his up and then Erik's, who bites back a cry at direct contact. Charles just kisses him again and rocks faster, telepathically telling Erik how nice he feels, all sleek and soft and hot. Erik breaks first, and Charles shudders at the feel of it on his skin, biting Erik's neck and following him soon after.

It's late when Charles finally makes his way to his own room, but he has the satisfaction of leaving Erik sound asleep with just the suggestion of a smile on his face.


	12. Chapter 12

Waking up in his own bed is a bit of a let-down, but he's comfortable and better-rested than he had expected. He hops up and dresses in a fresh skirt to the sound of someone banging a frying pan or some similar object. The others are emerging from their rooms when he pokes his head into the hallway, and Duma grins at him.

"So you sleep here after all!" he calls, and Charles laughs.

"Sometimes," he answers, and lets Duma precede him down the ladder. Breakfast is more like lunch, with different groups around the compound making small circles of their own. Two serving girls go around and give everyone a bowl with one scoop of seasoned gourd and another of Wakanda rice, and Charles eats in the Genoshan way, only spilling a little. In this compound there are no chickens to clean up, but after everyone has moved off, some of the monkeys come over to see what they can find.

Duma and Charles work together again, of similar seniority within the organization even if Duma is so much younger, and spend the morning helping to transcribe more rural birth records, midwives coming to the compound to sing or to hand over scrolls of pictograms. At midday Charles is introduced to get another new fruit, a strange prickly thing like a huge pine cone that reveals juicy, fibrous, golden flesh when one of the girls takes off the leaves and peels it with a huge and razor-sharp knife. She can't be more than fourteen, but she does it so deftly that Charles hardly has time to fret about her dainty fingers. It has a core like an apple, and she removes it with sharpened metal tube before cutting the slippery fruit into impressively even slices. The taste is a mixture of bright sweetness and alien acidity, and he savors each morsel she puts in his bowl. Otherwise it would be a dreary meal, just more rice with a little cooked egg in it.

Talak smiles, and tells Charles all about the many uses of ringfruit, so called by the Nziola for the shape of the slices. The season is just starting. "The children want sweets, and we're almost through last year's sugarcane."

Charles smiles, "Well, this should help. Does it travel well? I'm sure you'd find a market in Westchester."

"About as well as oranges," she says, and the conversation turns to Charles and Duma's next task, which is to learn how the clay for the tablets is composed. After the meal, Waarlo, one of the senior scribes, gives them each a basket and a wooden scoop and takes a set of his own before leading them off to the pit where the raw clay is dug. Hes very quiet and has the darkest skin Charles has ever seen, reflecting the blue of the sky the way polished obsidian does. His hair is cropped short and shows a wicked scar on the side of his head. The wound must have nearly killed him, but he moves with assurance and Charles doesn't feel anything amiss about his mind. He doesn't speak, but hums quietly, a curious, syncopated rhythm that's infectious. Charles and Duma are humming along by the time they reach the pit. It's a big clearing in the forest at the edge of town, still warm from the lowering sun.

Charles hasn't been to many places with the same feeling as this pit. It's a sacred space, but a homey one, too. This is Duma's first time being allowed to dig clay with intention, but children play here. A few are here now, skinny little things whose heads seem too big for their bodies. At least their bellies aren't bulging, which Charles hears is the worst sign, and their eyes are bright and their skins are a healthy brown like Duma's. What Charles can see of their skin, anyway. They're plastered all over with the red clay, and soon Charles and Duma are as well. Waarlo manages to get scoop after scoop of clay into his basket without getting more than a few smears on his arms and legs, but Charles is even more hopeless here than he is with the finished clay. Duma laughs at him and Charles laughs at himself and the children giggle and even Waarlo smiles.

At long last they have enough clay, and Waarlo gently chides the children to go home to their mothers. The shadows are lengthening fast, and the children are glad enough to come with them. Lightly touching their minds, Charles knows that they're girls, best friends, and proud to know their ages in numbers. When they reach the compound, one of the women catches sight of them and gives them each a salted fish.

"Go home and have your mothers make soup," she says, and the girls chirp their thanks and run away. Charles smiles, and bows to the woman, who laughs, and bows back before going on her way with her basket of fish.

 _How does the accounting work?_ Charles asks Waarlo.

_We write down that she gave two fish to hungry children. Any thievery always comes out in the end._

Charles nods, and he and Duma follow Waarlo to the little house by the kiln where he shows them the right elements to mix. Without white sand and black grit from the mountains to strengthen it, the red clay doesn't fire hard enough to be trusted with permanent records. The proportions are from an ancient recipe, and they won't be allowed to mix it themselves for another year, at least. It's too important. Charles can feel real longing from Duma, who loves clay and whose family has always worked with it, but any impatience is tempered by a very strong sense of duty for one so young.

When they leave to bathe, Charles makes sure to cheer Duma up as best he can. A waterfight fits the bill admirably, and also helps get them clean. They leave the spring laughing and dripping wet, late to dinner again.


	13. Chapter 13

After dinner Erik all but carries Charles off. With the door shut behind them he covers Charles in kisses so desperate that they're almost as alarming as they are flattering. Touching his mind brings relief, though. Azazel has informed Erik that the poultry will be arriving tomorrow and he's just desperate to get what he can before Charles has no time for him. He laughs into Erik's mouth, rubbing his back and coaxing him slower.

 _We have a little time, don't we?_ he croons, and Erik chuckles, nuzzling into his neck and sighing, tense muscles relaxing slightly.

“A little,” he mumbles.

“Then let's make good use of it,” Charles murmurs, and leads Erik over to the bed. His time as a Westchester bedslave has made him very good at understanding what people need, and he's not surprised when Erik rolls him onto his back and holds him down, biting him all over like he wants to devour him. His thoughts are right in line with that, and Charles whimpers, going limp and letting Erik move and maul him however he wants. Soon Erik has him on his belly and he arches his back, panting as Erik opens him up with two fingers and then four, reaching out mentally to be sure it's not too much. Charles tells him that it isn't by projecting a wave of pleasure, and he groans, biting at the top of his hip.

A moment later and Erik is slicked up and pushing into Charles, gasping against his neck and shaking all over. “Oh...' he whimpers, sounding lost.

“Yes,” Charles murmurs, holding Erik's face to the crook of his neck and rubbing his back as he sets up a deep, slow pace. There are times when Charles feels like he could do nothing but hold and soothe Erik for the rest of their lives and be happy. He sends wordless waves of love that make Erik shudder and moan, and rides through his climax with him, always fascinated by the way Erik's pleasure tastes when it mingles with his own.

“You're hurting my pride, Charles,” Erik mumbles after they've cleaned up and are lying still together, trying to cool off in the warm, humid night, and he laughs.

“I promise to let you do all the work for me next time. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Erik purrs, and hugs Charles tightly before having to loosen his grip, making a little feline noise of disgust at how sticky they both are in the heat. They drift off together and share a dream of the sea, but Charles wakes up alone. He's just collecting himself when Alex calls, “Nok-nok!”

“Come in!” Charles calls, and Alex enters with a tray bearing breakfast and a leaf with the pictogram for 'love' scratched into it, Erik's presence lingering on it like perfume. Charles beams at it and glances up in time to catch the slightly disgusted look on Alex's face. “You'll understand when you're older, dear,” Charles says, and Alex sticks his tongue out at him. “...Should I be worried about receiving special treatment?”

“Nah.” Alex settles on the foot of the bed, stretching his arms. “This is a personal service for Lensherr, and he's paying accordingly.”

“Oh?” Charles adds the cream to his coffee, wondering which of the tiny handful of cows he has seen around the edges of the town provided it, and then pokes curiously at the leaf-wrapped bundle of food. 

“Yeah. I already get an extra egg for my brother, and for bringing your nice little tray so you can be lazy I get some of the milk the cream was skimmed off of, and one of Lensherr's own eggs every week. It's a good deal.” He sighs, looking dreamy as Charles investigates his steamed hash of rice, chilies, a little beaten egg, and a few tiny dried fish. “Who knows, maybe a few months down the road we'll have chicken again.”

“I certainly hope so! The children need more meat.” He doesn't mean to, but he catches a flash of Alex's brother when he says that, a tall, skinny kid of about eight, solemn and old for his age.

“They do,” Alex says, and sighs. “And Scott needs to keep his strength up. That's my brother, he gets headaches.” There's old, dull rage with that, and Charles knows that an overseer hit him and that killing the man had only soothed Alex a little.

“I might be able to help him,” Charles says. It will depend on the nature and exact timing of the original injury and any secondary damage, but there's a good chance he can do something to ease it. The cautious hope and gratitude from Alex is so sweet it's hard to bear, and by the time Charles finishes breakfast they've agreed that he shall look the child over at his next opportunity. And then a wave of frantic excitement breaks over the entire community, rushing in from the harbor.

The first of the trade ships has arrived, and true to Erik's most dire predictions, Charles sees almost nothing of him for the next three weeks. He never would have thought to find himself a henboy at his age, but here he is, noting down the numbers, breeds, ages, and sexes of what seems like all the fowl in the world. Enormous white Winterfelds who pant in the heat, the little black Netherhens from the eastern fens who seem to be unimpressed with this strange hot place but determined to make a go of it, and the irrepressible little Inland Reds who cock their tiny heads and cluck with the same insouciance they do at home. There are other kinds as well, and Charles has to cross-reference manifests for all the names and to help figure out which were promised to the sailors, which died honest deaths and had to be eaten on the way, and if any had been pilfered. The number that are even doubtful is very low, and Charles is touched to overhear even more surface thoughts of relatives and friends than of chicken dinners.


	14. Chapter 14

Only a few of the hens have produced eggs yet, still too unsettled, and the servant girls have been feeding them to the scribes and other people working with the birds. They're small and a few are yolk-less, but each one is a treasure, and all assurance that these hens will lay is welcome. Alex and other compound staff help to segregate the weaker birds into a pen to get better or be eaten, and it's a testament to how poor the place is that hardly anyone complains about slipping in chicken shit.

Every day, as Charles coughs up feathers and tries not to fall into the shit (again,) he goes to the convalescent pen to check on its inmates. Some really do just need the quieter, more shaded pen, and each morning there are some bright-eyed birds ready to go back in with the others, and he has to adjust the numbers accordingly. Any casualties will be theirs to cook, but hungry as the watchful girls are, they're fair, too, and do everything they can for their charges. This morning the little black rooster has succumbed to dehydration at last, though, and Charles and Duma barely have time to witness each other noting it down before the most senior of the girls snatches up the body and carries it away. That night they have the first chicken soup served in the compound for a year. It's thin, but spicy and satisfying. Charles hadn't realized the desperation for terrestrial meat that has crept over him in his time on the island, and literally bites his tongue to keep from asking for seconds, filling up on roasted gourd to allow the others to have as much as possible.

After the first mad days and nights of counting, sexing, and evaluating birds and chicks, it's time to make the distributions. The whole process has been punctuated by the loud voices of town criers outside. In Westchester, crying the news is a cheap, unskilled job, something young slaves do for spending money or single freemen do because of the low responsibility to go with the barely-sufficient wages. Here, it's the job of storytellers, people who are taken very seriously indeed. To be sure the whole island knows, they have hired temporary criers, but these are all very respectable people. In Westchester they'd be village representatives, or hold some other important office.

The difference shows in the lack of standardization. Where Westchester criers are given set phrases, those in Genosha are given the information they must impart, and are left to do it to their own taste. Some sing little ballads about it and others just call the facts in something very like the Westchester style, save for a formulaic lilt up at the end. The gist of all is that on the next market day, families in need must come and apply for chickens. There are several different ways of getting a chicken or a share in one, but those are Nziola tradition and mostly in line with Obwaarii values as well, and can go unsaid.

Charles of course does not know all the fine distinctions, and spends the night before the distribution with Duma, roasting a few dried groundnuts the boy has saved up and boiling his own egg so they have something to nibble on as they go over the rules. Naturally, anyone who already has a laying hen will have to content themselves with anything left over. Top priority is given to poor widows with many children, and then to large families in general. The truly destitute are forbidden from repaying the gift for a year and a day, but anyone who can reasonably spare it will give every tenth egg to the compound as payment for the use of a hen. Roosters will doled out more sparingly, since Lady Frost sent fewer of them, knowing that Genosha needs to rebuild its flocks. Some of those will go to the biggest and poorest families, to sire chicks and then perhaps to be eaten if someone truly needs the meat. If any roosters remain, they'll be sold, but people are expected to come from the heart of the forest and in from the nearest islands, so they'll probably give out every last one and not see meat or unrationed eggs of their own for quite some time. 

Duma is philosophical about it. _We are the chief compound here,_ he says, picking up another bite of crumbled egg and groundnuts, _we'll get what's due to us. People will give us bits of the first meat out of pure gratitude, and then get into the real repayment schemes. Every tenth egg is just rent. The real return on our generosity will be some of the best of the first generation of new fowl._

_Every tenth bird hatched, perhaps?_

Duma chuckles, and speaks aloud, a Nziola word that roughly translates to, 'it depends.' It has become a running joke between them, because Charles is pretty sure he could not pronounce it right even to save his life. He tries now, and Duma just laughs at him. They finish their food and go to bed, where Charles dreams of Erik in that way that's not really a dream. He is asleep, but his mind is flying up into the low, green mountains and seeking Erik out.

And there he is, dreaming in an Obwaarii hammock, swathed to keep out the insects. Charles slips into his dream almost without meaning to, and finds him sitting naked in a boat made of bones on a dark and fetid sea, trying to keep a monkey with a gold collar from biting his face off with long canines. Despite the imagery, Erik is fairly calm, more annoyed than afraid. He flings the monkey overboard, revealing a chain attached to the collar. The monkey shrieks and splashes and Erik hauls in enough slack to keep the heavy collar from drowning the creature but not enough to allow it back into the boat.

“Little wretch,” Erik says to Charles. 

The monkey shrieks again and Charles laughs, struck by how ludicrous the situation is. “Hello, Erik. It's really me, and you're going to have perfect recall from here on. Mind if I make us more comfortable?”

His eyes clear as he shifts into lucid dreaming. “Oh. Good God, Charles, you've come a way!”


	15. Chapter 15

“Traveling is easier when I'm asleep,” Charles says, turning Erik's boat of bones into what the river folk in Westchester call a lilypad raft and making the charnel night into a lovely spring day on the clear blue lake two days's ride north of Lady Frost's palace. He makes another raft beside them and frees the monkey, who swims right to it and happily eats the bowl of fruit Charles provides him with. 

Erik beams, and crawls over the deck to Charles, hugging him tightly. “There are many reasons I love you, but that's one of them.”

“And I love you, dearheart,” Charles says, stroking his hair. “Have you been well?”

“Well enough. I'm on a tour of villages right now, making sure all the chieftains are playing nicely together and that everyone knows we are now trading with Westchester and honoring the hunting bans.”

“Are they?”

“For the most part. Sometimes there's tension because Obwaarii women are allowed to be chieftains and Nziola women aren't. Tonight we ate with one of the stupidest young chieftains I've ever met, but I think his uncles will keep him in line.” He sighs. “We're also looking for any sign of the Small People, but there's nothing so far.”

“Who are they really?” Charles asks. “I've only heard some stories for children.”

Erik chuckles quietly, sounding more annoyed than amused. “The Small People are small people. They can't all turn invisible, their feet touch the ground, and they file their teeth, which come in looking like everyone else's.”

Charles shudders at the thought, touching his own front teeth. “Eeaugh.”

“That's about the noise I made, but I got used to them during the war.”

“Show me?” Charles asks, and because they're in a dream together Erik knows exactly what he means, and a woman appears before them. She's only about four feet tall, but perfectly proportioned, and naked aside from a little belt that holds a small gourd, a leather pouch, and three knives. Her flawless skin is very dark, and she has what Genoshans call peppercorn hair, the darkest and most tightly curled. It's like a sleek wool cap on her head, and her big, black eyes sparkle as she grins at them, revealing a set of perfect, white teeth. Sure enough, each one is a triangular, inhuman point. The effect is uncanny, but not, after the first shock, unattractive.

“This is Bird,” Erik says. “She was a vicious, inventive fighter and used to joke about having my big gangly babies if we both survived.” He sighs. “She went missing after Sugar Flat, like so many others.”

The image of Bird flickers and vanishes, and Charles presses against Erik, the closeness soothing both of them. “I see. Thank you for showing me.”

“Will being awake in my dream tire me out?” Erik murmurs, and Charles shakes his head. “No, because I'm going to go get some rest of my own. You'll remember this as a waking event, but after I leave your dreaming will go on as normal. Please at least try to get along with the monkey.”

“He started it,” Erik mutters, and gives Charles a lingering kiss goodnight. There's a wave of childish separation anxiety from him but he lets Charles go without a struggle, sliding into a new dream that's more abstract and calmer. For his part, Charles returns to his own dreaming, and wakes up refreshed. This is an even better thing that it would usually be, because he has a very long day ahead of him.

Some applicants have actually spent the night sleeping on the ground outside the wall, and others arrive before dawn. Many of them look all right, but there are terribly skinny babies, and toddling children with bony limbs and paradoxically swollen bellies. Most applicants are women, but there are gaunt and determined men as well, and some older children who have been entrusted with the mission. Everyone is very serious and a little anxious, but they're a peaceful crowd. The serving girls are going down the line with pots of porridge, and people hold out cups and big leaves to hold their portions. Charles gobbles down his own without a drop of sauce and without caring, and scrambles to join the other scribes, most of whom have already eaten.

Talak, as head scribe, is in charge of distribution. There are too many for her to deal with them individually, so she goes down the line with three colors of paint, asking a few questions and dabbing each applicant or head of household on the forehead. Blue for highest priority, yellow for lowest, and green for those in the middle. Once she has the first twenty or so marked, she lets them into the compound, where Charles and the other scribes are waiting to take names and assign birds. Everyone has a column for the names and one to keep track of the member of birds, the original total on a sign in each pen.

One nice thing about the priority system is that the most draining work is done first. It's a pandemonium of need, old women and young widows round with posthumous child weeping in gratitude as the male compound staff capture birds in baskets. These destitute women each get a hen and a rooster to hopefully build a flock, as does a terribly maimed man with three little girls. By the time the first rush of blue-marked people have gone, Charles is wiping his eyes on the hem of his skirt, haunted by scrawny babies and a woman old enough to be his grandmother bowing her head to the ground and calling upon all the gods and good spirits of the forest to bless them.


	16. Chapter 16

The green group is still very poor, but less desperate. More of them smile, and by noon almost half the birds are gone from the main pens. There's another to the back that's being held in reserve for late arrivals from the deep jungle, and Charles goes to check on them at noon, stomach doing its best with groundnut paste on a small chunk of dried fish that had proved nearly impossible to chew.

“Everyone all right?” he asks the flock, and they look at him as if wondering why humans are so foolish as to do anything at noon besides sit in the shade. He chuckles, and watches them for a moment before heading back to his post. Everyone takes the opportunity to check their math, and everyone has the same number except for poor Duma, who lost count for a moment and is one bird behind. It doesn't take much to straighten out, at least, and soon they're back at work.

The afternoon crowd is mostly yellow, a few more greens popping up. Many of the yellow-marked people are village representatives, who have come to take breeding pairs and single hens back to take part in labor and egg-sharing programs. Each of them have credentials, and Talak checks carefully before sending them in. Others are townsfolk who generally have enough to eat but still have empty chicken coops, and a few Fharra traders from the near islands who are in the same situation.

Things are going quite smoothly until the shouting starts. It's Nziola, but too fast for Charles to parse, a man bellowing in rage and a young girl shrieking back. There's a general move to the compound entrance, and over Talak's shoulder Charles sees a girl of about sixteen with her hair wrapped up the way the married women wear it running from a man who looks more than angry enough to strike her. Wife-beating to a point is legal under Nziola custom just as it is in the southern regions of Westchester, and Charles wonders how much trouble he'll get in for interfering, because not interfering isn't an option.

And then Talak yells a single word so loud it feels like a thunderclap. The girl falls at Talak's feet, panting, and the man snarls but slows to a walk, his sides heaving as much as the girl's. Not wanting to make anyone translate for him, Charles reaches out with his gift. The girl is the youngest of three wives, and she is scared and angry. Her husband is ashamed to be seen receiving aid, even though his second wife is pregnant and feeling weak and ill after living on nothing but gourd mush. She's tired of him pretending to be a big man when really he's just stingy and hardhearted and proud, and goes on at length until at last Talak silences her, and demands corroboration from the husband. Under her piercing gaze he admits that his second wife is both ill and pregnant, but he insists that they need nothing as the girl's rage grows and grows.

“Look at me!” She yells, holding her arms out. This close Charles can count her ribs, and Talak nods.

“We see you, little sister.” She reaches out and puts a blue mark on the girl's forehead while the man rants and curses. She ignores him, and the scribes move back to their posts. Talak sends Charles to the reserve pen to collect a rooster, and by the time he gets back with it several of the boys have brushed the feathers out of their clothes and leave with the girl, her pair of chickens sitting there in their baskets.

Duma sees Charles looking out of things, and says, “She's leaving him, they've gone to get her things. They'll stay with us until they can travel to their home villages.”

“It's that easy to divorce?”

“It's trickier when there's dowry, but people have been so poor that brides can't bring much with them anymore.”

Charles makes a note to ask more about marriage customs when he has the time, and barely sees the three women when they come back. They keep giving out chickens until after sundown, and by the time they send the last of the day's applicants away, Charles is exhausted. Also very hungry, and not looking forward to whatever the girls can scrape out of the larder.

The scent of fresh fish is a welcome surprise, and the girls smile as they ladle rich soup over Wakanda rice. Seeing Charles's surprise, one of them grins at him. “You work hard, we work hard. Enjoy.” The soup is creamy somehow, but doesn't taste like milk. It's very spicy and is perfect with the bland rice. Talking to Talak, he learns that a Fharra man had brought the girls some fish in the afternoon in gratitude for the breeding pair his granddaughter had been given that morning.

“You see what I meant about us getting good food soon?” Duma asks, and Charles laughs, touched.

“I do.”

It turns out that the women are staying in Erik's house, and after dinner Charles stops by to make sure they're comfortable. Tari, the poor second wife, is stretched out on the bed, the elder Anou and younger Bia talking softly and eating some of the little golden fruits that Erik mixes drinks with. They seem surprised to see Charles, but are very polite and hasten to introduce themselves. They also assure him that they had plenty at dinner, and that as bad as Tari looks, it's a definite improvement. Charles touches her mind, asking and being granted permission to help her sleep. A gentle push, and her breathing slows and her body relaxes. Anou smiles, and passes Charles a fruit, chilled with her own cryomancy.


	17. Chapter 17

The second day is much like the first, blue-marked Obwaarii and forest Nziola coming in at the crack of dawn. The major differences are that there are more men in this group, and that everyone is gossiping about the three women in Erik's house. Charles mostly listens, curious about the tenor of public opinion. Generally, people cannot believe that a man would treat a cryomancer wife badly enough to make her leave. Anou is considered a bit old to remarry, but Nziola women begin wearing a belt of white beads when they stop menstruating, and Anou probably has a solid ten years to go, and much like the pyromancers of the north, a Genoshan cryomancer is worth her weight in gold.

Another simplifying factor in this mass divorce beyond the lack of dowry is the lack of children. Apparently this is Tari's first pregnancy, and the child will be the subject of some dispute if it survives its mother's deprivation and illness. Bia has yet to conceive. Anou has been pregnant four times, but her oldest son died in the revolution, the next two ''flew away,' which is the gentle Nziola term for a miscarriage, and the youngest girl is already married. The Nziola marry young, but brides below the age of sixteen are rare. Anou's daughter was placed into her husband's care on her twelfth birthday, apparently to get her away from her father. Charles fervently hopes that the child hadn't fallen off of the spit and into the fire.

At noon Anou comes around with the serving girls to pass out chilled slices of ringfruit, and everyone calls only half-joking blessings down upon her. She smiles shyly and bows before going away again. Charles savors his fruit, but all too soon it's back to work. The sun is merciless, and Charles has never been so hot in his life. Every day he at least tries to apply some sun lotion, but today he has to put more on because his sweat is washing it away. Even Waarlo is fanning himself with a large leaf, and Duma pants like a dog between groups. Talak's skirt is sticking to her, and Charles doesn't even want to think about his own.

Finally, as the sun touches the horizon, they give out the last of the birds, and let in the line of men with huge baskets who have come for chicken shit to put on their gardens. Apparently it has to be aged first, and there's a whole process of adding leaves and fruit skins and turning it, while goat droppings can be used fresh, and really it's fascinating, even if some vain, pampered part of Charles is reeling in despair.

At least they have time to bathe tonight, and while the cold spring water is incredible after the heat of the day, Charles is starting to get sick of crouching on rocks and waving away insects. He says so to Duma, who chuckles.

“The bathhouses open in the rainy season, when it's cooler and there's more water. It won't be long now.”

Waarlo sighs, sitting on the gravel stream bed to immerse himself up to the chin. “It always feels like the rains will never come.” The others nod and make noises of agreement, gently splashing.

“It is usual for us to be all men?” Charles asks a bit later, as everyone is gathering his things, suddenly struck by the group's composition in light of Talak being its head.

“Often,” Duma says, “because being a wife is a full-time job. But some girls become scribes rather than marry, or marry late. Married women _can_ hold the post, but there have to be other wives or no children.”

“That's why some of you take a second wife,” Waarlo says, yawning and helping Duma up the bank, “the first wants to be a scribe or a trader, and it's marry again or eat your own cooking for the rest of your life.”

Nziola men don't cook unless it's a matter of life or death, so this makes everyone laugh. Charles just rolls his eyes. Many of the finest cooks in Westchester are men, and it seems silly think of not being able to look after oneself as particularly masculine. He says so to Duma later, who just laughs and tells him that he ought to live among the Obwaarii.

After a dinner flavored with yesterday's soup, Charles stops to visit the divorcees, and finds Alex already there with milk and lotion for the stretched skin of Tari's belly. Just as in Westchester, it would be very improper to apply it in mixed company, and so they leave as soon as polite greetings have been exchanged and Bia has assured them that her uncles will be here tomorrow.

“They might join up with General Lensherr, depending on the route,” she says, keeping a protective arm around Tari, and Charles tries not to beam too obviously. Erik had said he would be back after the distribution, but Charles hadn't been expecting him so soon.

In his own room he stretches out on his bed and reaches out for Erik. He's much closer tonight, and still awake.

 _Charles?_ His mind is thunderous with exasperation, but calms at Charles's touch.

 _I hear you're due back tomorrow,_ he sends, and he feels Erik grimace.

_We found a shortcut. By which I mean some of the men fell down such a long hill that after retrieving them we decided not to double back. The last two villages can wait a week._

_Is everyone all right?_

_Aside from the shock and the preexisting idiocy, just fine,_ Erik growls, and Charles laughs.

_Try not to be too hard on them, beloved. At least it brings you back to me._

Erik snorts, but sends a wave of wordless love in return.


	18. Chapter 18

The next day feels like the first day after a festival, everyone tired of chickens and tired in general, and there's still feathers and shit everywhere. At least he's only supposed to help a bit with the clean up. It's mostly the compound staff's job, but the scribes help sweep up the feathers around their own buildings after breakfast, and then there are yesterday's records to check.

Just as the sun is reaching the zenith and all outdoor activities are slowing to their midday stop, Charles hears noises that remind him of his own arrival, applause and the happy shouts of women and children. Charles reaches out telepathically, to find that Erik is returning and is bringing Bia's maternal uncles with him. In Nziola society, a woman's brothers are like auxiliary fathers to her children. Bia's father was lamed by a slaveholder for trying to escape to the outer islands, and so has not made the trip himself. His brothers-in-law are very dedicated to the interests of their niece, however, and Charles is confident that things will work out.

Thankfully, it's expected for the members of a compound to come pouring out to greet their leaders when they return, so Charles is bundled out by the crowd and spared from attempting to be reserved or do to anything about his appearance. The men are from other compounds, but they wait for Erik to thank them and to pass out money and salt before going away to their own rejoicing homes, leaving Erik and Bia's uncles. They're tall and dark and have grim, serious faces, though they do accept money and salt of their own before following Erik to his house. Charles is trying not to be too obviously disappointed when Erik smiles and holds out a hand. Charles takes it and squeezes, lacing their fingers together as they walk. From the minds around them he feels a bit of amusement, but no disapproval. Erik speaks to them in Nziola, though it has an odd sound to it that makes Charles think that it must be a dialect.

Bia speaks the same way when she comes bursting out of the house to hug her uncles, chattering away too fast for Charles to understand even if it was the Nziola he's used to. Anou is more decorous, slowly rising and bowing to them all before offering a gourd of chilled water and more of the golden fruits, which ripen in impossible profusion at the very end of the dry season. Poor Tari is too miserable to care about anything, and once Bia has greeted her uncles she returns to her side to dab her with more chilled water and give her a root to chew. By local custom Tari and Anou are now Bia's sisters and under the protection of her family, something Charles is deeply glad of. 

After greeting the women and gently touching Tari's mind to ease her misery in the heat, Charles sits quietly beside Erik and nibbles on fruit, listening to the conversation. He's a little dismayed at how soon they intend to leave with Tari in such a bad state, but he can feel Bia's certainty that she would be more comfortable in her home village, and he catches glimpses of her memories of a cool, quiet place in the hills, with a gentle and competent midwife.

Erik insists that the women spend their last night in his house, and the compound's serving girls bring leaves and blankets to make temporary beds on the floor, as well as food for everyone. Erik makes sure everything is in order and takes two portions of the salted gourd pieces and fried fish for himself and Charles, leading him off to a quiet place by the stream, where he stamps in the bushes to frighten any nearby snakes and then settles on the ground with his free arm around Charles, trying to cuddle him and to inhale all of his food at the same time.

Charles chuckles, and slides into his lap. “Now, Erik. You must let me use my training.” He feeds him one of his own gourd pieces, and smiles as Erik chews. _Really, love. You need to treat yourself better._ He keeps feeding Erik as they talk mind-to-mind about Erik's trip. After days of the smell of poultry and in this heat Charles really isn't hungry at all, and gives Erik most of his own portion. Charles loves the mental pictures of remote villages, and beams when Erik shyly admits that he has actually brought him a present. Charles does not spy on what it is, concentrating instead on admonishing Erik to begin the day with more than one of the golden fruits and a strip of dried fish. He telepathically grumbles and complains and sends waves of love and gratitude that Charles cares for him.

All too soon they both have to get back to work. Charles doesn't even get to ogle Erik while he bathes in the stream, and that's just tragic. _Cheer up,_ Erik purrs into Charles's mind as he walks back to the compound, _I can't sleep in my own bed tonight._

Charles shivers happily, and is in a better mood as he rejoins his fellow scribes, all of whom tease him a bit about Erik's return until Talak makes them be quiet so she can assign them tasks. As apprentices, Charles and Duma are sent with Shan, the group's only Fharra. He's tall and his skin is the exact color of beaten gold. His face is so lovely it makes Charles feel shy, and the intricate patterns inked along his arms and legs and onto his chest are fascinating. He's one of the most senior scribes, and they follow him on a very important task.

There is a scale of poultry health that the Fharra use for trade, and while they won't be allowed to go and assess the birds and take egg counts by themselves for some time, they need to learn as soon as possible. Shan leads them from house to house, greeting the ladies and inspecting each bird. While no official records are kept on the number of eggs laid, putting the 'every tenth for the lead compound' thing onto the honor system, Charles can feel Shan making a little internal count of his own as he evaluates eye brightness, feather sheen, and all the other points they'll have to learn.


	19. Chapter 19

By the time they've looked at what feels like every bird in the city, Charles is even more sick of chickens than he was already. Bright beady eyes and reptilian claws and the ever-present fowl reek of the creatures all combine to make him utterly jubilant when Shan releases them so he can take reports from island scribes. Duma feels about the same, and they both burst out laughing at the same time.

They report back to Talak, and she sets them to work making tablets. As near as Charles can tell, the average apprentice scribe spends about twenty-five percent of his time doing this, but anything is better than more time around the goddamned chickens. Talak transfers records to clay, and she and Duma talk about the coming market day and when the rains will come this year. They tell Charles all about the rainy season, when everything is greener than green and Duma swears that plants grow so fast you can see it happen.

The time goes by quickly, and soon they're finding their places in the circle for dinner. Today there are little boiled shellfish that Alex shows him how to crack open. It's a quick, twisting motion, and the flesh inside is salty and faintly sweet. It's chewy at first, but then melts in his mouth, rich as cream. There are plenty to go with the rice and fried gourd pieces, and Charles is pleased to see Duma eating as much as he can hold. He feels so responsible for helping the compound conserve food, and that's a terrible trait in a growing boy. Everyone has an excuse to gorge tonight, though. The shells will be boiled for stock, but nothing else left over will be fit to eat. The Nziola do have ice chests, insulated wooden boxes covered in fantastical designs, but the island's cryomancers won't have the time to make that much ice for a while yet.

At long last everyone is happily stuffed, and they begin wandering their separate ways to bed. Charles can feel Erik's mind coming up beside him in the dark, but there's no other sign of him until he makes a deliberate little noise in his throat before taking Charles's hand and squeezing gently. Charles smiles and returns the pressure.

 _May I help you, sir?_ he coos into Erik's mind, mental voice syrupy-sweet.

Erik just laughs without making a sound and laces their fingers together. _I can hardly sleep in my own house tonight, dearest._ He sends a picture of Tari in his bed and Bia on the floor beside her and Anou on the floor at the foot, and the uncle sleeping on the threshold to guard his nieces and the other three in the most comfortable parts of the yard, where there will actually be some shade during the day.

Charles smiles. _True._

“Besides,” Erik murmurs as they approach the scribes's building, “I have a gift for you.”

They make their silent way up and into Charles's room, Erik telling him that there are more private places, but that they're full of snakes at this hour. They settle onto the blue coverlet (and Charles does remember to ask about the dye, which is a floral one that's easy to make but turns grey after a few years) and Erik reaches into his pocket, pulling out whatever small gift he has brought Charles. Charles is a good boy and does not look at the picture in Erik's mind, closing his eyes when instructed to and sitting still as Erik fastens something around his neck. It makes him remember his pretty collar and shiver happily, to say nothing of how intimate the gift of a personal ornament is in Westchester.

 _All right,_ Erik says, and Charles opens his eyes to find Erik holding one of the little pieces of mirror people use here, some of them the remains of full-length ones looted form lavish homes and shattered during the revolution. The angle is a little off, but they adjust and soon Charles can see what Erik has given him.

It's a necklace, that much he had been able to feel, but the slick, cool beads aren't stones, but big, flat seeds. Beautiful dark brown seeds shaped like teardrops, each one perfect and sound. They're pieced on the narrow ends, the largest seeds in the center with gradually smaller ones on either side, and hang in three strands at the front, united in the single strand he can feel on the back of his neck. There are at least sixty seeds, and they're so smooth they feel oily. As Charles handles them he realizes that they really are releasing an oil, but that it's light and smells nutty and floral.

“It's beautiful,” he whispers, and crawls into Erik's lap to kiss him. He sets the mirror aside and holds Charles close, sighing into the kiss.

_Bird taught me how to do it. The oil keeps skin soft and makes it cleaner, and if you have nothing to eat you can crack them and try for the pulp inside. Ten-year-old necklaces have had enough to save lives._

Charles is already deeply touched by a gift of finished jewelry, but all these layers of usefulness and the sense that Erik will die before he lets Charles go hungry makes his heart feel like an overflowing cup of something like mulled wine or honey milk, and he tries to share the feeling as he kisses Erik again and again, hands in his hair as his arms tighten around Charles's waist.

They have to be very quiet, of course, but Charles knows how to slide to his knees with grace and without the slightest sound. Taking Erik into his mouth contains that mess. Charles enjoys being throat-fucked and gagging a little and all of that, but there's a lot to be said for this, quiet sucking and gentle licking, caressing the base with one hand and listening to Erik's careful, barely-audible breathing as he swirls his tongue around that shorn head. Erik gasps when he comes, but anyone who can hear it will have been lying awake anyway. After a moment to catch his breath Erik pushes Charles onto his back to return the favor, purring in a way that Charles can feel but can't hear.

Charles can't help a desperate little squeak at his own climax, but he knows it's coming and stuffs the corner of the blanket into his mouth to muffle it, basking in Erik's affectionate amusement.


	20. Chapter 20

Erik's house-guests leave as soon as they can see to do it, and Erik of course wakes early enough to see them off and Charles doesn't want to sleep through their departure when their journey is going to be so hard. Bia's uncles are carrying poor Tari on a kind of mobile hammock, and Charles carefully sets up two programs within her mind. One is a loop of telepathic commands to block pain, the other to calm anxiety. Each one has a key, an image Tari will picture to begin it. Only when he's sure that Tari will be able to start and stop both states at will does Charles step back from the stretcher. The uncles thank him and Bia gives him a big hug while Anou bows to him and says to be sure and get his share of iced juice she has left behind.

It's melancholy, watching the little procession heading up into the darkness of the forested hills, looking so very small and vulnerable. Charles watches until they're out of sight, Erik standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't say anything reassuring, just stands with Charles and watches them out of sight. He's only a little worried about them, though. As long as they get home ahead of the rains, they should be all right.

After so much activity the entire compound feels lazy, and since Erik is newly returned and the others who hear legal cases are too tired from helping distribute chickens and the scribes are too tired to collect births and it's not a market day, a silence falls after the usual breakfast noises are over. Talak officially gives the scribes leave so that she can take a nap, and Charles finds himself sitting as near the moon-house as a man decently may, eating nearly-overripe gold fruits and tossing the seeds to the monkeys. When the Nziola clear a new compound, they leave some of the trees standing, and build the moon-house within them. The trees are symbolic of mystery and modesty, but to most men they just mean shade on a day like this.

“Charles?” Erik calls, approaching from the center.

 _Here_ Charles says, feeling like speech is too much effort. He can feel a wordless wave of fondness from Erik, who comes and sits beside him, wearing nothing but a skirt and sandals, even his lightest robes too hot and his widest trousers not breezy enough. It suits him, and Charles says so mind-to-mind, still too lazy to speak.

Erik chuckles, putting an arm around him that's a little sticky with sweat. “My poor, poor boy. I freed you from a life of ease.”

Charles shrugs, kissing Erik's neck. “I may work harder here, but I'm more useful.” He won't lie and say he doesn't miss Westchester, but Genosha fascinates him, even if he is getting very tired of gourds.

“Still, I feel like a hard master indeed,” Erik says, kissing the corner of Charles's eye and then making a soft, chirruping noise at the monkeys, who come a little closer and study them with wide, golden eyes. “Want to come to the night market with me?”

“Is that independent of market day?”

“Yes,” Erik says. “Market day is when everyone comes from the country to trade whatever they have, but the night market is every night unless something terrible happens or we're particularly poor.”

“I hope it continues for a very long time,” Charles says, “and I would be delighted to shop there.”

After lunch the scribes bestir themselves enough to make some more tablets, and Waarlo begins to show Charles how to work in clay while Duma presses reed-fiber paper. Charles uses his practice clay to demonstrate northern shorthand and to practice his Fharra pictograms, and Duma shows him to how to prepare the reeds. Like mixing the clay, harvesting them is too important a task for a pair of apprentices to do on their own, and Waarlo says it's far too hot for him to show him how to gather them today. Charles is in agreement, and the relief when night falls is palpable.

Bathed and dressed in a fresh skirt, Charles waits outside the scribes's building for Erik to collect him, which he does after a few minutes, in a robe and trousers and carrying a lantern made of the clearest glass Genosha can produce domestically, which is a murky jade-green. The light is a little bilious because of it, but they can see to find their way, and that's what matters. As they walk down toward the shore, they're joined by other lights. There are torches, carried very carefully in this dry weather, and green lanterns and candles and the occasional heatless ball of light produced by someone's gift.

There are more lights down by the water, with clear, imported lanterns hung on ropes from booth to booth. Unlike the tiny houses of Westchester, many of these are just a framework of sticks with grass woven through them and just enough space for the proprietress. Almost all of them are women, trade considered unseemly for most Nziola men, and they're selling simple meals and jewelry and palm fiber goods, and one little girl is carrying a basket of chilled gold fruit, calling the price of half a bronze coin for four of them. Charles buys four, using Genoshan coin for the first time, since he has room and board at the compound and has been so busy. Erik thanks him for his share, and greets acquaintances as they make their way down the line of booths toward the one where two young ladies apparently sell a very nice concoction of fruit juices and palm wine, buying some edible seeds and a bag of pretty beads on the way.

They're nearly there when Charles catches sight of Alex and a young boy who must be his brother. He waves and Alex waves back, leading the child over. The poor thing is wearing a heavy-looking visor over his eyes, and Charles wonders how he can see anything.

“Hi,” Alex says, stopping beside Charles, still holding his brother's hand. “Good evening, sir,” he adds, nodding to Erik.

“And to you and Scott,” Erik says.

“'nk you, General Lensherr,” Scott mutters, shyly gnawing on a slice of ringfruit..


	21. Chapter 21

They talk with Alex for a bit about everyone's hopes for rain, how beastly hot it has been lately, and chickens. Charles agrees to visit them tomorrow after dinner to see what he can do for Scott. He can't be sure now, with just casual contact, but at least nothing glares at him from the child, and the situation seems far from hopeless. The brothers leave them a moment later to go buy a stick of roasted locusts, and Charles is still pondering Scott's problem when embarrassment, shock, disapproval, lust and amusement suddenly all swirl through his head at once. Someone up ahead is clapping a rhythm and a few people take it up as others turn away in disgust.

Erik groans, handing Charles the bag. “It's one of the Fharra girls. Excuse me, I have to talk to her.” He gently pushes his way through the crowd, and Charles follows in his wake, still unsure just what is going on. At the eye of the storm is, indeed, a Fharra girl. She looks about eighteen, maybe twenty, and her belly is just rounding out with pregnancy, something Charles can see quite clearly because she's not even wearing the tiny loincloth and complicated jewelry the Fharra favor. She is remarkably beautiful, and is dancing to the rhythmic clapping by the light of a clear lantern on a spread palm-fiber blanket that gleams with coins. Her flawless skin is a rich gold, and her oiled locks fly around her face as she spins and uses her hips in a way that even the priestesses of the She-Wolf would have to admire, full breasts bouncing.

A wave of disappointment flows over Charles as Erik speaks to the girl in Fharra, stilling her. He shares in it, because really, that was a quality performance. He uses his powers to listen in because his Fharra isn't very good yet.

“Little sister,” Erik is saying, “you know the rule.”

She rolls her eyes, arms crossed under her breasts. “I am with child and have no man. You know the way of the Fharra.”

“I do, and I know the way of the Nziola.”

“They don't disapprove too much to pay me,” she says with a grand gesture to the blanket.

“Their hypocrisy does not change the law that their wives and sisters begged me for,” Erik says. “Please, go up to my compound and tell the women that I sent you.”

She sighs. “Very well, General. I see that you are a good and generous man, and for that I will be a better guest. My apologies.” She bows a little and scoops the coins into a pouch Charles hadn't noticed, wraps the blanket over her nakedness, and picks up her lantern, heading up to the main compound.

“What was that about?” Charles asks after the crowd has broken up, the mothers of young men pulling them away by the ear as the wives of older ones shake their fingers and scold.

Erik chuckles. “When a Fharra girl is pregnant and the father won't or can't provide for the child, she sells almost all of her pearls and dances to earn money. It's a perfectly respectable thing for a Fharra girl to do, but it scandalizes the Nziola so much that we've banned it here.”

“I see.”

“Sharing, however,” he says, leading Charles on to the booth that was their destination all along, “is always laudable by Nziola custom, so I've started sending them up to the compound for whatever the women feel is right.”

“What do you think that will be?”

“Oh, probably some dried fish, a gourd or two, and five helixes from the treasury. That's a lot of gold for a frugal mother, really.”

“Such an interesting custom,” Charles says, and is still pondering it as he deciphers the pictograms on the booth's sign while Erik talks to the round, sweet-faced women running it. Their hair is bound up in colorful cloths, and one is nursing one of the babies Charles recorded on his first day. He's pleased to see the child looking fat and happy, and is able to tell Erik that the high-potency ringfruit blend sounds the best to him. Erik orders for both of them, getting plain palm wine at the same strength. Their servings come in broad, shiny leaves wrapped into conical cups and sealed on the outside with clay.

As they walk through the market again, sipping their wine, Charles is pleased to see signs of Westchester imports improving things already. One of the only men is a Fharra trader selling slices of dried beef alongside salted fish, and there's an Obwaarii priestess selling silky blue head-cloths, manufactured of Genoshan fiber in Westchester and coming home again to be dyed and stacked up at the night market. Erik buys one for Charles because it matches his eyes, and Charles retaliates by splurging on three whole pieces of the beef and giving almost every bit to Erik, just peeling a string from the edge for his own delectation.

Returning to the compound, they meet the Fharra girl on her way back, and she bows deeply, promising Erik to have a song made about his generosity. Erik would rather she had just punched him in the gut, of course, but he solemnly thanks her for her tribute and lays a blessing upon her unborn child.

“I don't have real spiritual significance,” he explains as they finish their walk, “but kind words from anyone carry weight, particularly if they have any virtue of their own.”

“Your blessings must be very strong, then,” Charles says, lacing their fingers together and kissing Erik's hand.

He shivers. “You think so, beautiful boy?”

“I do,” he says, and they keep walking, making good use of Erik's house once they reach it. With more time and space and less need of silence, Charles can work Erik open with oiled fingers and fuck him deep and hard while teasing him with images of the Fharra girl and other beautiful women.


	22. Chapter 22

The whole next day is cloudy and thunderous and strange. It makes Charles feel restless, and Erik seems a little drunk, his gift meaning that some changes in the weather affect him deeply. Charles checks on him at each meal time, and makes sure that he's lying down comfortably after dinner, leaving over his protests that he's 'jusht fiiine.' Alex is waiting for him in the yard, and they leave the compound, going to the nearby one where Alex and Scott are staying.

“I could stay here,” Alex says, “but it's no place for a child who can't work.”

“Children ought to be playing and studying,” Charles says, and Alex laughs.

“They do that too. Kids Scott's age just herd chickens and wash dishes, but as heavy as that visor is and with what it's keeping back, he can barely do anything.” He flares with old rage and deep sorrow, and Charles impulsively takes his hand, squeezing it.

“I'll do everything I can to help him, Alex.”

Alex nods, and Charles knows he's not speaking because he doesn't trust his voice not to crack. They reach the Jewelbird family compound after walking in silence for a while, and Charles goes in after Alex, looking around curiously. It's nowhere near the size of the vast central compound, which is almost a village unto itself, but he counts half a dozen houses for wives, and the place has its own moon-house. Dinner is over here as well, some of the women lounging and watching little children while others finish the dishes. Alex bows and calls a few greetings around, leading Charles to a building that the central house hides from the gate. It's a lot like the building Charles lives in, but with shared rooms. It's deserted, which seems incredibly strange to Charles.

“The Jewelbirds keep orphan boys,” Alex explains as they duck through the curtain, “and the Blacktrees up the hill keep orphan girls, so just about everybody with a living sister is up there visiting.”

“Oh, I see. I was honestly a little disturbed.”

Alex chuckles. “You were projecting. I'll take you by there some night, the Blacktrees are great people.”

They climb to the second floor and Alex shows Charles the room he shares with Scott, who's sitting very solemnly on the bed with his hands on his lap. The visor looks grotesque, like it should snap his poor white reed of a neck. “Good evening, Scott.”

“Good evening, sir,” he says quietly. It's sad to feel such a young mind so hopeless, and Charles sighs.

_I'm going to see what I can do for you, Scott._

_...This is really interesting._

Charles chuckles, kneeling in front of him and taking his weighted head in his hands as Alex sits on the floor to watch. _I'm glad you think so._ He gently feels Scott's mind, searching for that low, dark connection to the physical brain, that pink jewel floating in the vault of the skull. He asks Scott about the injury as he searches, and he sees the blow coming and then the world spinning and exploding into light as the back of his head slams into a wall. Charles carefully tucks away his own rage at anyone brutalizing a child like that, and finds what he's looking for. A physician once told him that the back of the brain is apparently where sight is kept, and sure enough, nothing feels right. The physical parts are the hardest for Charles, but he can tell that Scott is lucky to have his sight at all. He might lose it anyway, peering through thick red crystal at the world.

Further examination lets Charles give them some good news, at least. _The headaches are mostly secondary,_ he says, forgetting to even think about speaking. _So far I don't think I can stop the blasts, but a better visor will be a massive help, and I know just who to ask about it._ That cheers them up a bit, and Charles gives Scott a program to ease pain like the one he put into Tari's mind when she left.

Just as Charles is standing to leave and promising Scott that he'll tell him all about Westchester next time, the weather breaks at last. Everyone has told Charles about the Genoshan rain, but it's another thing to experience it for himself, even with his gift letting him see other people's memories. There's just so much of it. The air is water, and Charles feels like he's struggling to suck in each breath around the raindrops, which are enormous and as warm as tears. Staggering along a path that's rapidly turning to mud with only Alex's leaf cloak to protect him from the deluge, he wonders how anyone who endures this can complain about the cold in Westchester.

He finally staggers back to Erik's house and ducks into the shelter, shivering and wringing his skirt out. His blood is so thin with the heat that he's actually chilled now, and as soon as he's reasonably dry he burrows in beside Erik, who chuckles and puts his arms around him.

_I would have gone looking for you if you had taken much longer._

Charles yawns, snuggling even closer. _I'm glad it didn't come to that._ He tells Erik about his visit and Scott's condition as the rain pounds on the roof, and explains his plan for a better visor. Now that trade between Westchester and Genosha has opened up, they can send the raw materials to stop Scott's blasts to a master lens-grinder and get something truly wearable made.

 _I'll see if Azazel will carry it,_ Erik says, and Charles sighs, kissing his neck.

_Thank you._

_We'll be hosting your sister soon, won't we?_

Raven's school doesn't close for another six weeks, but Charles supposes it's not too soon to start thinking about it.


	23. Chapter 23

The north border of Westchester has a long and proud history of glass-making, and Charles is fortunate that his former mistress has a very cordial relationship with Master Song, who is one of the best of the best. He's a tribesman by blood, but his family has been wearing Westchester clothes and making glass for its nobles for generations, so Charles writes the letter in the western tongue. He greets the old man and hopes that Genoshan minerals are letting him make new colors, and then describes Scott's situation in full, running it by the brothers to be sure the description is truly accurate. He also encloses Erik's sketch of the visor and how it fits, and Azazel void-steps the missive to Westchester in an instant.

Even with Azazel transporting Charles's letter and the glittering red crystals to Master Song so quickly, it feels like an eternity of waiting for the visor to be made. Apparently the current one was even worse before Erik used his powers to alter the metal parts. He had been malnourished and in pain at the time, however, and hadn't dared to do more. With the problem brought to his attention again, he's glad to go with Charles and let him telepathically supervise a much cleaner job. They manage to remove at least thirty percent of the ungainly thing's mass, and Charles can feel what a relief it is for Scott's head and neck. Erik's gratitude for Charles's assistance is almost as sweet, and he feels like he's glowing as they walk back to the compound hand in hand.

It's raining, of course, but the really drenching cloudbursts seem to mostly confine themselves to the hours just after sunset, and now there's just a gentle pattering on the hood of Charles's cloak. Every Genoshan adult seems to know how to make at least a passable one, and each cloak lasts for a week or two before starting to shrivel and wilt too much to be any use. Charles is still learning, and for now has to wear one that Erik made so that he'll actually stay dry.

“The rain is so warm here,” he says, squeezing Erik's hand. “It's strange to be so wet and not be cold.”

“Later in the season it'll cool off and be a bit more like the west, but for now the whole island is a bath.” They walk in silence for a few steps until he speaks again. “You know, I wonder how many of the old bath houses will reopen. Once the rain stops being so warm, it would be nice.”

“Speaking of a coming chill, how should I tell Raven to pack?” Charles is not exactly afraid of Erik forgetting or disregarding his promise, but living in Genosha has made him worry that hosting his little sister is a greater imposition than he realized.

“Light clothing and things that are waterproof, I suppose.” He shrugs. “I've been meaning to ask, do you think she'd rather stay with the compound's girls, with the Blacktrees, or in a hut by the moon-house? We should have real guest quarters, but we don't because we're poor.”

“I'll have to ask her,” Charles says, “and don't worry. Our father was a true gentleman and taught us to at least pretend to be gracious.”

Erik laughs, and kisses his cheek. “You're a credit to him, sweetheart.”

Over the next few weeks Charles finds himself writing a lot of letters. Since he needs to send western-style messages to his sister and a few more to Master Song, Talak puts him to work churning out letters of introduction for various envoys, and scratching out literal laundry lists, long strips with a numerical code to help the girls keep track of the compound's various skirts, head-cloths, and blankets. They're not kept for records, the girls just dump the sodden strips in a basket and leave it for the scribes to re-pulp and form into new paper. After enough passes the stuff ends up mixed with chicken shit and put onto someone's garden, which seems to be the eventual fate of all organic waste on Genosha.

Charles groans, flexing his hand and sitting back from his desk, wishing all paper everywhere were quietly moldering away in a compost barrel and not bothering him. A telepathic flicker is the only warning he gets before Azazel appears beside him. Charles jumps, and then smiles at him.

“Good afternoon, Azazel.”

“And to you, Charles,” he says, grinning. “Master Song wants you to know that the visor is nearly complete.”

Charles does a little mental calculation, looking at the western-style watch that Talak has hanging on the wall for the rare occasions when exact times are called for. “It's the middle of the night there! He's too old to be staying up so late.”

Azazel just laughs, and blinks away for another ten days. Charles is making tablets when he returns, and has to scrape the stuff from his hands before he can he follow him out of the building. He's not only carrying the finished visor, but a letter from Raven. He leaves both with Charles, and while Charles reads he blinks away to find Alex. Raven is happy to report that today was the last day of school and she's already mostly packed to come join him. Lady Frost will also be sending some presents with her, so that's something else to look forward to. Just as Charles folds the letter and tucks it into the pocket of his skirt, Azazel comes walking up with Alex, his tail lightly swishing in the way a cat's does when it's pleased.

Poor Alex doesn't even dare feel happy, and just grimly takes the visor and leads the way down to the Jewelbird compound. Scott is sitting by himself under a leaf awning, playing some complex and arcane little game with sticks. A woman comes out of a nearby house to offer him a piece of ringfruit, and he thanks her politely. She gives him a sad smile, and then a more genuine one as she looks up to see them approaching, and that Alex has a red crystal visor in his hands. She hangs around to watch as they greet Scott and Alex kneels down to take the current visor off. Without it Scott's face looks tiny and very pale. There are red marks on his white skin, and Charles feels like weeping in joy as Alex puts Master Song's sleek, light work on him. His eyes are hidden, of course, but all the rest of his face is free, and his smile when he takes his first look through it is beautiful.


End file.
